All That Remains
by wordsmithsonian
Summary: Everyone is putting back the pieces, working to accept their new reality in the wake of the final Battle. Post DH canon compliant. HG/RW , HP/GW, GrW/AJ. Rating for language, sex, and adult situations. You know, the good stuff. *Completed*
1. Chapter 1 Echo

**Second Fic! This one should be longer than the first. I hope you enjoy it!**

**I don't own anything of or related to the Harry Potter universe, that would be J.K. Rowling.  
**

Harry woke to the sound of screaming, high-pitched terrified bursts in rapid succession. He leaped from his bed, grabbing his wand and raising it in one smooth motion. He squinted to see in the darkness, but it was useless without his glasses. The screams ended abruptly as they were replaced by harsh breathing and quiet murmurs. He turned and grabbed the wire frames from his nightstand, shoving them on his nose and relaxing his wand arm as he realized he was pointing it at his best friends.

The pair of them were barely perceptible in the darkness of the attic. Ron's bulky form seemed to be rocking gently as he grasped Hermione tightly to his chest. She looked impossibly small, curled into herself, recognizable only by the shadow created by her hair. She was silent now, but her screams seemed to echo in the small room, loud beneath Ron's quiet mumbling.

Harry ran his free hand through his hair, causing the dark locks to stand on end. He tucked his wand into the waist of his pajama bottoms and crossed to the door on silent feet. Neither of his friends seemed to notice him. Opening the door carefully to minimize the squeal of ancient hinges, Harry found a wand shoved in his face, the wary eyes of Arthur Weasley close behind. Arthur lowered his wand, but did not back down a step, so Harry was forced to squeeze though the opening sideways to avoid knocking them both down the stairs.

Arthur looked up at him, the severity of his expression belying the softness of his voice. "Everything all right, Harry?" Harry shifted guiltily and adjusted his glasses, stalling for time. Hermione had been sleeping with them in the attic since they had returned to the Burrow. She had tried to follow Mrs. Weasley's rules at first, but neither she nor Ron had been able to sleep apart. After a few days of watching his friends suffer, Harry had declared them both ridiculous and demanded that Hermione stay with them. And now it looked as though the gig was up.

"I erm, I had a nightmare Mr. Weasley, but I'm fine now." Arthur stared at him incredulously. "I was sure I heard a girl screaming, Harry." Harry did his best to conjure up an embarrassed blush "Yeah, well, I can't help how I sound, can I?" Arthur held his gaze for a few tense moments and then sighed, rubbing one hand over his face in exhaustion. "Well, then, try to get some sleep." He patted Harry's shoulder absently and turned to descend the stairs in silence.

Harry stood on the top step, weighing his options. He could wait for Mr. Weasley to go back to his room and then attempt to sneak into Ginny's, where Hermione supposedly slept. That was most appealing, but his conscience was already pricked from lying to Mr. Weasley. He could just go back to bed, but it felt intrusive to go back at the moment. He decided to go down to the kitchen and get something to drink.

Arthur walked down the stairs slowly, trying to decide what he should tell his wife. He was positive that he had heard Hermione, as he had checked Ginny's room first and she was missing. Ginny had told him that she was in the bathroom, lying just like Harry to protect their friend.

Molly wouldn't like this business of boys and girls sleeping together, but Arthur knew that far more was at play here than teenage hormones. He knew his youngest son, and he trusted him implicitly. Besides, Harry was up there as well. Arthur had suspected that this was going on for over a week, since he had seen Hermione come down the stairs and slip into Ginny's room at dawn. He had been trying to keep it from Molly, but now it was unavoidable, as she had been awakened by the screams. He blew out a breath, staring at his bedroom door, no closer to an answer now than he had been when he left Harry. He turned the knob slowly, and stepped into the room. Molly sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide in silent question. She held out her arms, and Arthur went to her.


	2. Chapter 2 Aftermath

**This is a bit of a long chapter. Thank you to those who reviewed, I really appreciate it!**

**The characters and world of Harry Potter all belong to J.K. Rowling**

The mattress creaked softly beneath his weight as Arthur sat beside his wife. Molly rubbed her hands over his arms and then waited in uncharacteristic silence for him to speak. The haunted look in her eyes tore at his battered heart. A year ago she would have been on her feet, arms akimbo, shouting a demand for explanations. But that was a lifetime ago. Now she sat in rigid silence, her eyes wide in desperate question, her hands shaking softly where they clutched his arms. He sighed and ran his hands over his face in a habit he had developed recently. He could swear that his face felt infinitely older beneath his hands, the skin simply melting away with grief. He cleared his throat.

"Well. The children are all safe in bed dear, there's nothing to worry over." Molly simply looked at him, her silence forcing more words from his mouth as it was intended to do.

"I mean, that is, Harry had a nightmare. It's been rough on him, all of this…" He trailed off as Molly lifted her eyebrows in that way that meant she was not accepting a single shovelful of what he was throwing at her. Her lips pursed for a moment and then she broke her ruthless silence, which caused Arthur to heave an inner sigh of relief.

"That. Was _not_ Harry, Arthur." Arthur suddenly wished he could take back that sigh of relief, as it had obviously been premature on his part. Molly narrowed her eyes at him in a look that still sent his oldest son quaking in his boots.

"What are you keeping from me? Was it Ginevra? Is someone hurt, Arthur? Will you – " But Arthur put the fingers of one hand against her lips, pulling her close against him with his free arm.

"Everyone is fine, Mollywobbles. It wasn't Ginny, it was Hermione, but she's alright now. We should just go back to bed, get some rest…" He trailed off as Molly continued to look up at him like he was denying the theft of cookies with his hand still in the jar. She pushed away from him and sat still for a moment, then –

"If that was Hermione… then why did you have to go all the way up to the attic? I heard you clumping up the steps and then you spoke to someone. Was it…is Hermione up there? With Ron and Harry!?" Her rapid-fire questions grew increasingly shrill until she ended on a note Arthur was fairly certain could only be heard by dogs. His shoulders slumped in defeat. He had never been very adept at deceiving his wife, she simply knew him too well. The children did a better job of lying to her than he did.

"I…Yes, Molly. Hermione is sleeping in the attic with Ron and Harry. I actually, I believe she has been for some time now." He chanced a peek at his wife's face, taking in her expression of horrified disbelief.

"And you _knew_!? You knew they were breaking our rules, and you didn't tell me? All this time, and they've been… Ronald Bilius Weasley!! I'll kill him! I'll wring his devious little throat with my bare hands, Arthur! I'll hex him into next Sunday! I'll – " She had stood with Ron's name and was making her way to the door, enumerating his punishments with each step. Arthur stopped her with her hand on the knob, causing her to turn on him in fury.

"And _you_!" Her ginger hair flew around her face like it was alive and writhed with anger. "I don't even know what you were thinking, Arthur, letting them carry on like this under our own roof!" Arthur tried to hug her to him, but she pushed him away, turning to pace in the cramped space at the foot of their bed.

"It really isn't what you think, Molly, and besides, Harry's been up there with them the whole time."

She blew out a breath of pure disbelief. "And you're saying that poor Harry is an adequate chaperon?"

"I… well, yes, I suppose." Arthur sank back onto the bed, stretching his legs out on top of their worn bedspread, and resting his shoulders against the headboard. He let his head thump back against the sturdy wood. "I mean, really Molly, they're good kids." She gave him a particularly venomous look, opening her mouth to protest, but Arthur jumped in. "Yes, even Ron. He may not be quite as well behaved as Harry and Hermione, but he has a good heart and a noble soul."

Molly paused in her pacing and then perched herself at the very edge of the bed. "I know. I know that, Arthur. But they're too young! I remember you at Ron's age. I wouldn't trust a boy of seventeen as far as I could throw him! And sweet little Hermione is so vulnerable just now, with her parents missing and…everything."

Arthur suppressed a dangerous chuckle at her description of a frail and helpless Hermione and reached down to scoop her up against his shoulder. "I know they're young, Molly, but it just…it isn't the same for them. They've been through so much together. Things we couldn't begin to imagine. And they've had to grow up very fast. It isn't right and it isn't fair, but it's what made them the extraordinary people they are. And what Ron and Hermione have, you have to have seen it growing over the years, Molly. It isn't your typical teenage romance; it's the real thing, like what we have." He hugged her close and waited for her response, hoping fervently that she would agree with him. He was so tired, and really just wanted to tuck her close and go back to sleep.

"I don't want them to grow up too fast; Ron is still my baby boy. The fighting is over now and I just wanted them to get back to…to being children, with ordinary lives and ordinary worries." Arthur felt her tears soak into the front of his threadbare pajamas. Part of him was amazed that she still had tears to cry, after… but his mind shied away from that for now. He patted her back and reached down to pull an old quilt over them.

"I know, Mollywobbles. But some things are just beyond our control. And Ron and Hermione…I think they need each other right now, just as I need you." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"So then what are we going to do, Arthur? Just pretend that we don't see what's right before our own noses?" He nodded slowly. "Yes, I have often found that to be the best course of action when dealing with our children."

Molly sighed. "Well I don't like it. And I expect you not to give express permission, Arthur. Merlin knows what the rest of our brood would do with that kind of freedom." Arthur shuddered inwardly at the thought. If Ginny caught wind of this… well, poor Harry wouldn't stand a chance. He closed his eyes and pulled her as close as he could, finally giving in to the demands of sleep.

Harry made his way down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky board on the second landing and the twenty second step, which always seemed to shriek when trod upon. He thought he heard voices arguing in Ron's parents' room, but he hurried on to the kitchen.

The room seemed different, empty and silent. It was a room that was meant for loud laughter and louder arguments and love. Now it was just a shell without purpose. Harry shook himself, aware that he was coming dangerously close to melancholy. He put on a kettle for tea and sat at the table, feeling small before the vast expanse of wood meant to serve so many more.

He pulled out his wand and tapped it absently against his knee, sending small sparks dancing in the darkness. Then he proceeded to choke on his tongue as a shape moved out of the shadows.

"Careful, mate, you don't want to catch your trousers on fire. That would be a tragic end for the savior of the wizarding world. Bloody uncomfortable for your bollocks, as well." The sliver of moonlight that filtered in through Mrs. Weasley's lace curtains shone on George's hair, which was getting quite long and stood up in several places nearly as bad as Harry's.

Harry put his wand away, angry at himself for letting his guard down. At another time, that would have meant death, and worse, failure. He tried to smile at George's weak attempt at a joke, but as he had discovered in the endless stream of days since the final Battle of Hogwarts, his mouth would not seem to curve correctly. George sat down across from him, and he could feel his gaze like fiendfire against his skin. Harry couldn't explain it, but he had found it difficult to look directly into Georges eyes since the funeral.

The kettle began to squeal and Harry was saved as he jumped to get it before he woke the entire house.

Hermione woke to someone screaming, harsh broken sounds that echoed in her head. She heard Ron murmuring that she was safe, that he was there. She felt his strong arms wrap around her and she realized that it must have been her screaming. Her throat felt raw and her body trembled violently, fat tears leaked from her eyes despite her best efforts to keep them contained. Ron was shaking as well, his voice rambling senseless words of comfort with a distinct tremor. A part of her was mortified to behave so irrationally, but a larger part of her reveled in the indescribable comfort of being held so close against him.

Her mind was filled with his familiar scent as he cradled her to his chest, rocking gently. His tee shirt, only slightly too small, was soft against her face as she soaked it with her tears. She couldn't even explain why she was crying exactly. Vague impressions of terror and pain pushed at the edges of her consciousness but she shoved them back. Now there was only this room, and this man.

She struggled to sit up despite his protests. She sat close beside him and wiped her face impatiently with shaking hands. Ron watched her in silence. She hated the look she had put in his eyes, worry and grief and helplessness. She tried to smile reassuringly, but only managed a watery grimace. She clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them, pale and thin, tangled together like twists of paper.

"I'm fine Ron. Really." Ron just continued to look at her and then slowly shook his head.

"No. You're not. But there doesn't seem to be a bloody thing I can do about it." He watched her for a moment more and then stretched back out on his bed, shoving his blanket aside angrily. Hermione delicately laid herself out beside him, tentatively resting one hand on his chest. They were both still shaking, the far too familiar sensation of fear and adrenaline coursing through their bodies. Ron broke the silence.

"Why don't you just let me hold you when you get like that?" Hermione closed her eyes, searching herself for the best answer. "I do let you hold me; I need you to hold me. You're the only thing that makes it go away. But then once I'm properly awake, I just feel so...embarrassed and … ashamed." Ron stared at the ceiling.

"So you're ashamed of me then? Ashamed to let me…" He trailed off, but she could feel him swallow thickly. Hermione lifted her head to look at him.

"No, that's not it at all! I'm ashamed that after all this time I'm still so…damaged." She said the last word in a whisper, horrified that she was exposing herself like this. Ron lifted her effortlessly so that the majority of her torso rested on his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. His hands, mostly steady now, rubbed circles on her back.

His voice was rough when he spoke. "You aren't damaged Hermione. You're just something else…I don't know how to say it, but you just _are_." Hermione sniffed delicately. "Well, that clears everything up nicely, thank you Ronald." Ron ruffled her hair, reminding Hermione of how truly awful she must look right now. "Don't be swotty, Hermione. You know I'm no good with words."

She nestled her head against him, marveling at the way he was so articulate with his body and so inarticulate with his speech. She listened to him breath, feeling her head rise and fall with his chest. There was not a lullaby in the world more comforting than his heartbeat beneath her ear. He was here. He was alive. That was all that truly mattered. Sleep caught up to Hermione swiftly, taking her against her will until she lay limp in his arms, snoring softly.


	3. Chapter 3 Midnight Tea

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed! The next update will probably be in a few days, this one was faster than my usual speed. (don't get spoiled!)  
**

**All things Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling, and not me.  
**

Ron lay as still as possible, unwilling to disturb the sleeping girl cradled in his arms. He was amazed at how very precious she had become to him. A part of him was frightened; it felt like she carried his heart in her pocket everywhere she went. He felt vulnerable, exposed. They were closer than ever, sleeping next to each other every night now. But they hadn't _talked_ about it; about what it all meant.

He felt like a bloody girl, wanting to talk about _feelings_ and things. But this was Hermione, and this was important. It was the most important thing in the world, actually. He wanted to be sure she knew that he wasn't messing her about. He wanted her to know that when he kissed her, it wasn't just a randy bloke kissing a pretty girl. It was so much _more_ than that, but he didn't know how to say it. He had all of these ... emotions bubbling up around his chest and they got all tangled together and confused and he just ... he just didn't know how to deal with it all, really. Hermione had once accused him of having the emotional range of a teaspoon. He wondered what she would say if she could see inside him to the tangled mess of grief and love and fear and joy and…too much of everything.

He was fairly sure that Hermione kept her emotions neatly categorized in boxes, to be taken out at the appropriate occasion. Ron's emotions could never seem to manage appropriate. At Fred's funeral he had been astoundingly preoccupied with the feeling of Hermione's hand in his, at the amazing things that small contact did to him. Then on a private walk to the lake with Hermione he had only been able to feel the gaping hole in his life, the indelible stain on his heart left by the loss of his brother, the terrible gnawing guilt of being alive when Fred wasn't. He simply couldn't manage to have the correct emotions at the appropriate moment.

Hermione groaned softly in her sleep and his entire body tensed, prepared to pull her out of whatever horrors her mind went to. She simply snuggled closer, her hair tickling against his nose. He began to relax in inches. It had been difficult to accept that they were truly safe now; his body was still wired to fight at any moment. He couldn't sleep without his wand under his pillow. He even found himself waking up periodically to check that Hermione was alright, that Harry was in his bed.

He glanced over at the empty bed squeezed tight against the wall across from them. Harry wasn't back yet. He had developed an uncanny knack for leaving them alone when it was tactful to do so.

Their twin beds were small, and Ron's feet had a tendency to hang off the end, but he didn't mind at all. He was secretly thrilled that there was so little space that Hermione was forced to practically sleep on top of him. He had tried to give her the bed and sleep on the floor at first, but Hermione had told him not to be an idiot after he had woken up shivering. The moment she had thrown back the covers and commanded him to get in would forever be one of his most favorite moments.

She whimpered, tiny lines appearing between her brows and around her mouth, like she was attempting to frown or shout or something. He was worried about her. She spent so much energy suppressing her emotions during the day; determined to be practical and useful, that she was overwhelmed by them at night when her mind lay open and vulnerable. The nightmares had become a regular part of their routine now. Something they dealt with each night and then ignored over the breakfast table.

Ron felt his blood boil with helpless anger. He hated feeling this way. He needed to be strong for her, and for Harry, and for his family. Because he wasn't strong enough before. He couldn't be there when they really needed him most. He had let them take her from him, and hurt her so badly that she was still feeling echoes of the pain. He had stood and watched while his brother was killed, taken from all of them forever. He had to be stronger now, a better Ron. For all of them.

George sat at the kitchen table and watched Harry bustle around, making them both cups of tea. Fred would have thought it was funny, being served tea by the savior of the wizarding world. Only, Harry hadn't been Fred's savior, no one had. George put his hands under the table before Harry could see them shaking. He didn't know why they did that sometimes. There was no reason for it.

Harry sat down across from him and slid a steaming cup of tea across the table. George wondered how long it would take him to get up the courage to look at him. He should have been proud, really, to be something that the Boy Who Lived was finally afraid to confront. But he wasn't proud. No one looked at him anymore, not really. To tell the truth, he found it difficult to look at himself, and had started to avoid reflective surfaces. His own father could only meet his gaze with a kind of pained squint, like he was trying to focus only on the parts of him that were George, and not a Twin.

Harry watched George carefully wrap his hands around his cup. He was fairly sure the tea was too hot to hold like that, but George didn't seem to notice if there was pain. Harry looked at his face for the first time, and struggled not to show a reaction. George looked like absolute hell. Like an escapee from Azkaban halfway through a life sentence. It hadn't even been that long, since … But it had been a lifetime for George. His cheeks were sunken in, his eyes barely visible beyond the thick ring of bruises that swallowed each orb. His eyes … were staring right at Harry, and Harry didn't know what to say. George broke the silence.

"So, what brings you skipping down to the kitchen?"

Harry scratched his head. "Oh, well. I couldn't sleep, I guess."

George shrugged. "Naw, not with Hermione screaming like that, I reckon."

Harry looked at him sharply "How did you know that was Hermione?"

"Well, unless you or Ron have developed a magnificent falsetto, then that was definitely a girl."

Harry leaned forward, tea forgotten. "But, how did you … how long have you known Hermione was sleeping up there … with us?"

George sipped his tea. "You mean with Ron. Unless the three of you are far more interesting than we ever gave you credit for!"

Harry struggled not to wince. George still used "we" sometimes when referring to himself. Harry was suddenly battered with the endless waves of guilt that had followed him off the battlefield. So many lives …

George continued "I guess I've known for a while now. The three of you aren't nearly as stealthy as you seem to think you are. You know, we've been working on some things for that at the shop, real secret agent stuff, and …" He stopped abruptly and looked into his tea like he was trying to pass an exam in Divination. Then he simply stood and walked out, Harry heard the back door click shut moments later.

He didn't need to look out the window to know where George was going. He was going to the small mound of freshly turned earth between the garden and the Quidditch pitch. George had declined the offer to bury Fred at Hogwarts. He had said it would be cruel for him to have to listen to lectures throughout eternity. Then he had quipped that it was only slightly less cruel for him to have to watch Ron play rubbish Quidditch. Everyone had been relieved that he could still joke like that, but Harry had seen that it was costing him dearly. George was putting on a brave face for his family, but Harry doubted that he saw anything as a joke anymore.

Harry sipped his rapidly cooling tea and decided that he had given his friends enough time to compose themselves. He cleaned the kitchen with a wave of his wand and crept back to the attic as silently as possible. Ron was awake when he got there, his wand pointed at the door when Harry opened it. Harry nodded at him and crossed to his bed, feeling completely exhausted. He cocooned himself in the warmth of the handmade quilt and fought back the ghosts long enough for sleep to overtake him. He dreamed of golden snitches and red haired girls and a slowly burning fire that relentlessly consumed the entire world.


	4. Chapter 4 Breakfast

**Things are progressing a little slowly now, but they will pick up soon!**

**As always, I own nothing Harry Potter. Thank you everyone who reviewed!**

* * *

The chatter of voices combined with the clatter of dishes gave breakfast a veneer of normalcy.

George felt like he was watching the scene from within a bubble floating high above the food and conversation. Their voices seemed muted and warped, their faces blurred. Nothing was nearly as normal as it seemed. He ate mechanically, but his food was like sawdust in his mouth. He could feel his mother's eyes like little birds fluttering worriedly around him. She always watched to be sure he ate something. Ginny laughed at something Charlie did and he felt an unfamiliar burst of anger. Didn't they know what day it was? No one seemed to notice that May was nearly over. In two short, interminable weeks it would be the second of June. One month exactly from the day his brother …

George couldn't take it anymore, the camaraderie and laughter. All this love and family and normalcy was choking him. He stood quietly and slipped out of the kitchen, his mother's eyes like tremendous weights of sadness on his shoulders. He just couldn't stand the unbelievable _pressure_ anymore. Pressure to act normally, like everything was fine. Like he was okay. Like anything could ever be right again. He let his feet guide him along the now familiar path to Fred, wanting to be with the only person who didn't need him to act normally.

Ron paused in stuffing his face to watch George melt away from the kitchen like a ghost. Then he noticed that Hermione, deep in conversation with Ginny, had nearly as much food on her plate as when she had started. He prodded her with his elbow until she swung around to glare at him.

"Oi, ye've not eaten a bluhdy fing on yer plate!" Hermione raised one eyebrow.

"Don't talk to me with your mouth full, Ron. It's disgusting." Ron frowned, but swallowed the rest of his beans. She started to turn back to Ginny so he pulled her hair, which had been ruthlessly subdued into a single plait down her back. She squeaked in outrage and turned so violently that he was surprised she didn't keep spinning like a little top in her chair. He grinned at her and stuck out his tongue.

"Food's all gone, see?" She just glared at him, thoroughly unimpressed by his concession to table manners, so he decided to plow on. "Well, my food's gone at least. Yours is still sitting on your plate, getting cold." Hermione looked at her plate for a moment.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Ron! If you want my food, you're certainly welcome to it, but please stop bothering me!" He grabbed her hand and wrapped it around a fork as she stared at him like he was completely mental.

"I don't want your bloody food, Hermione; I want you to eat it!" She dropped the fork as soon as he released her hand.

"I'm finished eating, Ron." He frowned at her. "No you're not." They stared at each other, each one willing the other to blink or turn away.

Hermione finally rolled her eyes. "Why do you suddenly care how much I eat for breakfast? You've never looked beyond your own plate before!" Ron didn't know how to explain that he was worried about her; she had gotten much too thin and had a tendency to skip out on meals. He couldn't tell her that, though. Girls were funny about blokes commenting on their weight.

"Look, if you don't eat now, I'm just going to bother you all day right? Just think, Hermione, I'll follow you around all day long, going on about you not eating your breakfast. I reckon you won't get anything done at all. An entirely unproductive day. Now, would you rather I do that, or are you going to pick up your fork and eat some bloody food?" Hermione glared at him for a moment and then turned back to her plate with a muttered "Honestly!", then began to tuck in with a dainty grace Ron had never come close to achieving.

Ron's chest felt warm and full, with triumph he supposed. He had to take his victories where he could when it came to Hermione.

Harry watched his friends bicker about something or other, and the sheer normalcy of it was an enormous comfort to him. Ron had gotten uncharacteristically serious since the final battle, and Hermione was working herself to the bone assisting in the reconstruction of Hogwarts, the complete rehaul of the Ministry, and the slow healing of the Weasleys. It was a relief to see them acting like themselves again.

Hermione and the Weasley children would be going to Hogwarts without him today, he had a meeting with Kingsley. Some sort of memorial / celebration event was in the works and he wanted Harry's opinion on a few things. Harry didn't feel much like celebrating. He had somehow hoped, in the back of his mind, that everything would truly be over once he defeated Voldemort. That people would forget about Harry Potter and go on about their lives. Unfortunately, his fame had increased tenfold, and that made everything he was trying to achieve that much more difficult. There were still pockets of Death Eaters hidden throughout the country. Harry couldn't rest until they were gone, all of them.

The illusion of safety he had achieved by defeating the Dark Lord was as fragile as fairy wings. As usual, he had completed one insurmountable task only to be faced with another. He looked at Ginny, heaving an inward sigh.

She was the reason he had to keep going. He couldn't be with her until it was over, not in the way he would like. He wanted her safe first. She was watching him out of the corner of her eye, sadness and hope swimming in their brown depths. She was waiting for him to make a move, to show her where their relationship was heading. Harry's hands were tied until he made sure there was a future to plan for. He longed to hold her, to sink himself into the sweet oblivion of her lips.

Charlie's watch chimed loudly, signaling that it was time to head for Hogwarts. Harry thanked Mrs. Weasley for the meal and slipped away before Ginny could confront him.

* * *

**A/N - I know things are a bit bleak for poor George at the moment, but I promise a ray of light in the next chapter! Thanks again for reviewing!**


	5. Chapter 5 Knickers

**As promised, a bit of light at the end of the tunnel for poor George. I hope you enjoy it! Don't worry, there's more Ron and Hermione to come!**

**As always, Harry Potter world and characters are J.K. Rowling, and definitely not me.**

**

* * *

  
**

George walked back to the house, hands stuffed in pockets and head hung low. The Burrow was empty, eerily quiet without a family to fill it. His parents were meeting with the Order and everyone else must have gone to Hogwarts. George had missed the portkey again. He wandered the silent rooms aimlessly, finally sprawling on the rug before the fireplace. He lit a fire with a lazy wave of his wand. It was plenty warm in the room already, but he wanted to watch the hypnotic dance of flames. His mind felt scattered, unable to focus as he would like. He wondered if it would always be like this, this feeling of being lost in an unfamiliar world.

Three loud knocks shook the front door, stirring George from his reverie. He glanced at the door but kept his seat. He wasn't interested in anything that could be on the other side. He turned back to the fire and the knocking continued, escalating in both frequency and volume. Then a familiar voice came through the door.

"Oi George, if you don't open this door right now I won't let you see my knickers!" George's eyes widened as he absorbed Angelina's voice, and then her words finally sunk in. Fred would have never let him live it down if he passed up such a golden opportunity! He scrambled to his feet, knocking over a small end table with Ron-like grace.

He faced the front door, now silent, and wondered if he had been imagining things. Perhaps there was no one there. He hadn't seen Angelina since the funeral. Maybe he was just lonely and had finally gone balmy. He started to turn away but then a series of odd scuffling noises and muttered cursing came through the door.

George yanked it open to find a rather unusual sight. Angelina was bent away from him, attempting to arrange an enormous pile of knickers on his front doorstep. He grinned broadly, his face relaxing for the first time in what seemed like ages.

"Wow, Ange, I didn't expect you to show me _all_ of your knickers! One at a time would do me just fine, really, but you definitely have to model them." He picked up a particularly tiny set that appeared to be constructed of dental floss and held them out to her. "You can start with these."

Angelina's heart constricted at the sound of his voice, not hollow and broken as it had been at the funeral, but filled with characteristic laughter. She spun around to find him grinning like a fool, holding a pair of extremely tiny knickers. She put her hands on her hips and raised one eyebrow imperiously.

"I don't think so, you randy git. Why don't you just go ahead and slip into those while I make us a cup of tea?" She pushed past George with a light squeeze on his shoulder and continued on into the kitchen. She could feel his eyes on her, filled with questions. He looked at the pile of lingerie for a moment and then followed her, shutting the door behind him.

Angelina spent more time than was strictly necessary slamming cabinets and banging pans under the guise of making tea. This was harder than she had expected. Seeing George now, after all that had happened … Nothing was the same anymore. She controlled her breathing, forcing her body to calm and the tears pressing against the backs of her eyes to recede. She finally located the kettle and put it on, pasting a smile on her face before turning around.

George stood in the doorway watching her. He caught her eye and smiled, making gorgeous little lines crinkle around his blue eyes. He shrugged one shoulder towards the door. "So, are you going to tell me what that was all about …" He paused, as though waiting for a second voice to finish his sentence. Then he seemed to give himself a small shake and continued on. "Or maybe you'd rather show me?" He said with a comical waggle of his brows.

Angelina rolled her eyes and sat at the table. George pulled out the chair across from her and slumped forward dejectedly. "Oh, come on Ange! You promised me knickers, you bloody tease!" She gave him a look dripping with mock severity. He responded with puppy eyes shining with laughter. "Pretty please with a chocolate frog on top?"

She sighed and got to her feet.

"Fine. If that's all you want from me …" She nonchalantly unfastened her belt and began to work on the top button of her khaki trousers.

"Stop!" She jumped as George slammed his hand on the table, half standing. There was something unfamiliar in his eyes, something dark and dangerous. She felt a chill go down her spine and chided herself for being a ninny. It was only George, after all. They stood frozen for a moment; her hands paused as he held her gaze with those unfathomable eyes. Then he sat down with a solid thump, and the spell was broken.

Angelina fastened her belt, avoiding his eyes for a moment. She felt like crying again, which made no sense at all, really. She was such a silly cow nowadays. She sat quietly and looked up, steeling herself for those eyes. But it was only George. He looked at her and exhaled loudly, pushing his hair back behind his ears in a nervous gesture characteristic of George alone. Fred had never been nervous in his short life. It broke her heart to watch the hair on his right side swing back into his face, with nothing there to hold it back.

"Sorry." He offered her a shy smile, impossibly endearing in the bright red flush that had crept up his neck to enflame his face. He rolled his eyes, obviously disgusted with himself. "I'm sorry, Ange. I must be pretty hard up for it. There aren't many free birds in Ottery St. Catchpole." He meant it as a joke, but she was surprised to discover that it hurt to know he didn't think of her that way.

She shot him a condescending look. "You're always hard up for it, George. Fred was ever the one who got the girl." There. It was done. She had promised herself that she wouldn't mention him, not today, but his ghost had been an overwhelming presence. The fact that where once there were two there was now only one could not be ignored. And Angelina Johnson had never been afraid to face facts.

George's head snapped back like he had been slapped. He hadn't realized it, but no one had talked about Fred, not _really_, not like he had been in life, since the bloody funeral. And what an almighty mess that had been, serious and respectful and everything Fred would have hated. The only thing that had gotten him through it had been Lee sneaking fireworks into the gravesite, rigged to explode as they lowered the coffin. And Angelina, her head thrown back with throaty laughter through her tears. She was watching him now, as warily as one would watch a hippogriff that had missed lunch.

He raised his hands in surrender. "You're absolutely right. Fred had an unholy amount of luck when it came to the ladies. He could charm the knickers off a bloody gorgon. I guess you'll all just have to settle for me, now." He shot her a sly glance from beneath golden lashes. "Either that or endure the romantic attentions of Percy."

Angelina unleashed an enormous smile, her teeth gleaming white against her mocha skin. She raised one eyebrow in a familiar gesture.

"Oh really? What about the youngest then? I hear he's pretty famous nowadays and quite fanciable." George laughed, and the sound was like balm for her soul. "Ickle Ronniekins? You'd have some stiff competition there, love. Not even you could take Hermione Granger in a duel." Angelina ignored the rush of warmth from his endearment. It meant nothing.

She flexed her arm, showing off her toned bicep. "I bet I could take her in a fist fight, though!" They grinned at each other until she finally realized that the annoying sound she had been hearing was the kettle. She jumped up to get it, hoping that she hadn't managed to burn all of the water off. As she fussed with the tea, retrieving two mismatched cups for them to use, she continued their ridiculous conversation, desperate to make this moment of happiness last as long as possible. "You know, there are men in this world who _aren't_ Weasleys. Loads of them, actually. A girl could take her pick!"

George leaned back in his chair and propped his hands behind his head. "Merely cheap imitations of the real thing, darling." Angelina brought him his tea, ruthlessly tamping down on the ridiculous burst of excitement his second endearment had caused. She sat next to him, trying to think of something more to say. He ignored his cup and looked at her. "So. Seriously, Angelina, there are an awful lot of knickers on my doorstep. What did you do, rob Madame Boudoir's vault at Gringotts just to cheer me up?"

Angelina smiled, not at all surprised that George was familiar with the famous lingerie designer. "No, actually, they were donated. Each girl wrote her name in her pair and added it to the collection." George's eyebrows shot up so high that they nearly disappeared into his hairline. "They did all that for me?" He asked disbelievingly. Angelina took a casual sip of her tea. "No. They're not for you."

He continued to look at her in silent question as her lips spilt into a gigantic grin. "They're for Fred."

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	6. Chapter 6 Healing Hogwarts

**This is a bit longer than usual for my chapters.** **Warnings: There's quite a lot of swearing in this one, mostly Ron of course. Also a bit of intense snogging and adult situations.**

**I own nothing Harry Potter, it's all J.K. Rowling's.**

**We'll get back to George later, this one's all Ron / Hermione (yay!)  
**

**I really appreciated the reviews, thank you!**

**

* * *

  
**

Hermione waved her wand in sharp, steady gestures; keeping the stones levitated out of the way for other workers to access the blocked-off classroom. Neville gave her a sad smile as he stepped over a gaping hole in the castle floor; sweat dripping down his neck and shoulders. The sun was shining with relentless cheer overhead, disguising the solemnity of the work they were doing. It had been a particularly long day.

Hogwarts, while nowhere near back to its original glory, was finally approaching livable conditions after the tireless hours of reconstruction the volunteers had been working. An enormous wave of help had arrived the morning after Voldemort's defeat. Grieving families, students, alumni, and witches and wizards of all walks of life had drawn together to help repair the layers of magical damage that had been dealt to the school. The complicated tangle of curses, hexes, and physical damage had required several specialists in different fields.

McGonagall directed troops of workers to different areas, conducting the reconstruction in a surprisingly organized fashion. She often seemed aloof and unaffected by the miasma of grief that surrounded the school, but Hermione knew differently. A few days after they had begun the daunting task of repairing Hogwarts, Hermione had discovered Prof. McGonagall sitting in an empty classroom, her shoulders shaking with violent sobbing. In her hands, the Professor clutched a single rather tattered shoe, far too small to have been worn by a grown person. That had been the most difficult part of their task.

Hermione had expected the worst part to be seeing her beloved school in such disrepair, but she had been wrong. The worst of all was discovering the pieces left behind in such a violent magical confrontation. Clothing, wands, hair, and miscellaneous body parts were strewn through the rubble. On the first day Hermione had found a woman's finger, neatly severed just below her wedding ring, nestled between the grooves of cobblestones in the courtyard. Ron had found what appeared to be a pile of gelatin, but was actually the remains of Brunhilde Welstitch, a middle aged witch from Hogsmeade who had joined the fray. They had not yet been able to remove the charred remains of the centaur Caedmon, whose image was burnt into the stone castle walls like a morbid shadow, eternally rearing in combat. There were no words to describe the aftermath, the carnage was simply devastating.

The first thing they had done was recover the remains of the dead that had been hidden or overlooked in the first pass after the battle. The death toll continued to climb over the first few days, finally topping off at fifty, mostly those loyal to Dumbledore. Voldemort's followers seemed to have slithered their way out of danger for the most part. An uncomfortable fact which Hermione knew weigh heavily on Harry.

He had disappeared that morning, off on important business, she was sure. He was brooding again, turning in on himself and away from his friends, which were legion at this point. She could understand his need to escape the adoring masses, but now he was avoiding her and Ron. Even worse, he was avoiding Ginny. Hermione set her burden carefully out of the way and scanned the grounds for the ginger witch.

Ginny was fragile nowadays, brittle and frail behind the projected image of strength she used like a shield against the world. Her frank manner and athleticism gave a false impression of toughness that many took for granted. Hermione hoped that Harry was not among them. Ginny needed him now more than ever, and Hermione sincerely hoped that he would wake up to that fact before it was too late. It was time for the Boy Who Lived to slow down and actually _live_ for once, for himself and not for others. She hoped he was ready for it.

An odd crunching sound came from her left and Hermione's breath whooshed out painfully as she was knocked to the floor by a bone jarring blow to her back. The skin of her palms scraped raw on the rough cobblestones as she reached out to catch herself. Her ears were ringing but she heard voices shouting apologies and recriminations from all sides. She struggled to sit up and assure everyone that she was fine, but her ribs screamed in protest. She lay still for a moment, attempting to focus on a single voice, to understand what was going on.

Cool hands lifted her head and lay it on a garishly printed lap. She rolled her eyes upward, forcing them to focus on one of the three Lunas she saw wavering above her. Huge luminous eyes in a pale face were calm and reassuring; small hands steady as they pushed the hair back from Hermione's forehead. Luna tilted her head at Hermione.

"One of the fifth years had an accident. I believe the rock was much heavier than he realized, his magic could not control it. He must not have had enough salamander blood with his breakfast." Hermione furrowed her brow, momentarily distracted by the notion of salamander blood being a key component to a healthy breakfast. She opened her mouth to ask if everyone else was alright, but then she finally identified one of the voices swirling above her head as an angry Ron.

"Luna, help me sit up please." Hermione bit her lip to keep from crying out as Luna pulled her arm across the smaller girl's shoulders, supporting her as she sat upright. She closed her eyes against a nauseating wave of dizziness and controlled her breathing, needing to get to Ron. He was standing with his back to her. He had a younger boy with tan skin and mousy hair pinned to the wall with one large pale hand clamped around his throat. The muscles of his back and arm bulged with barely leashed fury and she could see the tendons of his neck were taut as ropes. His nose was inches from the boy's face as he growled a filthy stream of curses and censure. Hermione could just make out the tail end of a sentence that culminated in "stupid little tit-wanking git !" His voice was so rough it sounded like he had gargled with gravel. She watched with growing alarm as the unfortunate boy's face turned an ever deepening shade of purple.

She was about to ask Luna to intervene when a rather harried looking Neville pushed his way through the gawking crowd of onlookers and forcibly pulled Ron away from the boy. He ducked, eyes wide, as Ron immediately took a swing at him, stumbling as his fist connected with air. He looked around frantically, but the boy had disappeared, obviously possessing far more brains than Ron had given him credit for. He turned on Neville, shoving him in the chest.

"What the bloody fuck do you think you're doin' mate!?"

To Hermione's astonishment, Neville pushed back. "What are _you_ doing, Ron? I'm just trying to help."

Ron barked out a harsh sound that was supposed to be a laugh but fell well short of mirthful.

"Some great fucking help you are! Where were you when that moronic little toe-rag decided to pick up a giant fuck-off boulder and wave it around the bleedin' place!?"

Neville took a small step forward, until both men stood toe to toe. His dark head rose slightly taller than Ron's, and Hermione wondered how she hadn't noticed just how big Neville had grown.

"He's just a kid, Ron. It was an accident. He was trying to help, just like everyone here. You have no right to go all berserk on him because he made a mistake!"

"We can't afford a cock-up like this! He hurt Hermione, he could have fucking killed her! You have no idea, mate, the kind of ridiculous shit she's been through. She doesn't need some prat throwing bloody rocks at her!"

Neville threw his arms out in a gesture encompassing the castle grounds.

"We've all been through some pretty ridiculous shit, Ron! The rest of us were left here to deal with a pack of sadistic maniacs running this school while you were off on your super special fucking mission with Harry! These kids … you have no idea what they've dealt with, Ron. You weren't here. And right now you need to back off. Go take care of Hermione. Madame Pomfrey can take a look at her." Neville spun on his heel and walked away with sharp, measured steps. He pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared inside.

Luna followed him with her eyes, her characteristic wistful expression tinged with something hard to identify.

Ron stood for a moment, apparently stunned by the confrontation, and then ran to Hermione, scooping her up like she was a child. Without a word to Luna, he rushed down the hall, his long legs eating up the ground with great strides. Hermione looked at his face, flushed red with anger. Tense white lines had appeared around his mouth, like he was in pain. She put her hand on his cheek, forcing him to look down at her.

"Don't take me to the infirmary. I'm perfectly fine, just a few scrapes and bruises. It isn't anything that I can't heal very well on my own. In fact you can put me down now, please."

He turned his head, forcing her hand to fall. "No. You're going to the infirmary whether you like it or not." His arms tightened around her like he was afraid she might struggle. His steps never faltered as he navigated the twisting corridors.

Hermione pressed her lips together in a thin line of irritation. "I insist that you put me down this instant, Ronald. I can walk quite well on my own now. You are overreacting." He kept walking like she hadn't spoken. She pressed her face into his neck, her lips moving softly against his salty skin. "Please." Ron met her eyes for the first time, breaking her heart into a thousand tiny pieces when she saw tears welling in their corners, turning the clear blue into turbulent oceans of pain.

He slowed to a stop and they just looked at each other for a moment until he heaved a great sigh and walked back along the twisted corridor to turn into an abandoned office Hermione recognized as once belonging to Professor Slughorn. Chairs and tables were overturned and countless vials and bottles lay smashed into the torn and singed oriental carpet. Unidentified corrosive substances had eaten their way through the stone floor, leaving oddly shaped holes in random places.

Ron lay her down on an overstuffed couch in the middle of the room. It was completely intact, having somehow survived whatever horrors had occurred. He settled her head gently on a silk pillow and stood rigidly like he was awaiting the executioner. Hermione stretched experimentally, taking inventory of her injuries. Bruised ribs, several cuts, and perhaps a sprained wrist. Nothing she couldn't handle. Ron watched grimly as she carefully pulled out her wand and began healing herself.

After she had dealt with all of the bruising she could reach, she fished in her blouse for the little pouch she had taken to wearing around her neck. From the expanded depths within she drew a small bottle of essence of Dittany, and began spreading the shiny substance on her cuts and scrapes. Large hands took the bottle from her as Ron knelt and began spreading the ointment himself, his callused fingers impossibly gentle against her skin. Hermione closed her eyes, savoring the tenderness of the moment, her pain forgotten. She smiled down at the top of his bent head.

"Did you hear Neville? You had him cursing just like a Weasley, Ron. I'm terribly afraid that you have been a bad influence on him." He said nothing, continuing to search her arm for damage. Hermione sat up, forcing him to pause in his ministrations. "I believe he's changed quite a lot since we left. Luna too. It feels like we have to get to know our friends all over again, doesn't it?" She winced as her back throbbed with pain. She couldn't reach the area of greatest damage with her wand. She sighed.

"I'm sorry Ron, but could you get my back? I can't quite reach it, and there appears to be some bruising that should probably be taken care of." Ron nodded silently, moving around her so he faced her back. He held his wand out and paused.

"I'm sorry. I can't … Hermione I can't see where you're hurt, your blouse is covering it. I should take you to Madame Pomfrey, she can – " Hermione twisted, immediately regretting the action as her back exploded with pain.

"No! No, Ron. I don't want to go." She looked down, avoiding his eyes. "If I … If my back were exposed, could you heal it?" He nodded again.

She brought her hands up to the high neck of her blouse, releasing the buttons with quick, businesslike motions. She lowered the fabric to her waist, keeping her body turned away from him.

Ron sucked in his breath sharply, cursing under his breath. Her back was a mottled swirl of cuts and bruising. He healed the damage with a shaking hand, watching in amazement as her skin turned smooth and creamy. She looked so fragile. He could see her ribs through the skin of her back, the ridges of her spine in sharp relief. He swallowed, doing his best to ignore the pale blue cotton of her undergarments that smoothed across her back. Suppressing a wildly inappropriate urge to kiss the nape of her neck, he leaned closer, reaching his hand for the bottle resting on the floor.

He began applying ointment carefully, even sliding his fingers beneath the mysteriously feminine straps to follow a nasty cut. He cleared his throat.

"Is that better?" Hermione nodded, refusing to look at him. The back of her neck was tinged pink and he felt an answering blush creep into his face. She abruptly pulled her blouse back into place, buttoning it all the way up to her neck. She sat stiffly, her back held away from the cushions.

"Thank you." Her voice was small in the empty room.

Ron looked down at her, so tiny and frail. So strong and brave. She amazed him.

Suddenly and without warning all of the pain and fear and anger and grief and longing and _everything_ crashed down on him like he was the one who had been struck by a boulder. To his complete mortification he fell to his knees, burying his face into the cushions as his body was wracked with uncontrollable sobbing. He felt her hands in his hair, heard her voice speaking softly, but he wished she was anywhere else. He didn't want her to see him like this, crying like a big girl's blouse.

He cried for Fred, for his brother who had so loved life and yet would never have the chance to live. For George, the broken half left behind. His family, eternally incomplete. His friends, forced to grow hard with pain and anger just like him. He cried for Harry, like Atlas with the world forever on his shoulders.

Most of all he cried for Hermione. For the innocent bossy little girl she had been, for the brilliant and capable woman she had become. Somewhere between the years she had snuck into his heart, deep inside his most secret places. She was infinitely more than just a girl he fancied. She was a treasure for the whole bloody world, and it was his job to protect her. Why else would she need him around? And look what had happened. He had let her down again.

He felt her small body press against his back as she held him tightly; stroking her fingers though his hair. She deserved better than he could give her. He felt broken, powerless. There was nothing he could do about any of it. They would never be safe, not entirely. He would never be strong enough to keep her from harm.

Great gulping sobs erupted from deep within his chest as he fought for self-control. Hermione was trembling against him and he wished he was strong enough to stop this. To be a man and brush it all off, walk away. This was so fucking humiliating.

Hermione ran her hands all over his body, like she was trying to find the hidden spot that would somehow comfort him. She rubbed his arms and back, wrapping her arms around him to press her hands into his chest, against his heart. She rubbed her face against his neck like she was a cat, desperate to make her love seep into his skin, to heal him from within.

His shoulders slowly began to stop shaking and he lay stiffly against the sofa, his face hidden from her. His breathing was ragged and broken, gasping with his pain. Hermione pressed against him as tightly as possible, her own tears running silently down her face to soak into the back of his shirt.

He sniffed loudly, rubbing his sleeve across his face. Hermione allowed a few inches of space between them so she could fetch a handkerchief from her pouch. She held it out to him, but he made no move to take it. She crawled around him so she could look at his face, but he turned away from her.

"Go away." His voice was nearly unrecognizable, muffled by the cushions and torn at the edges with grief. She held out the handkerchief again, nudging his cheek gently.

"Never."

He turned his face to look at her, and her heart bled at the naked pain in his swollen eyes.

Ron was unable to hold her gaze for long, his eyes dropped to the sofa, heavy with shame and humiliation. He would give anything to disappear right now, to sink into one of the many holes in the castle floor. He couldn't believe that he had just lost it like that, in front of _her_.

He closed his eyes as she gently wiped his face with the cloth she had made damp and cool with some muttered spellwork. He let her clean the traces of grief away from his skin, wishing foolishly that she could reach inside him and do the same to his soul.

She replaced the cloth with her hands, running her fingers over his face as softly as butterfly wings. He sighed deeply, searching himself for something to say, something to explain his embarrassing episode.

He brought one hand up to capture hers against his cheek, turning so that he spoke into her palm.

"I'm sorry. I dunno what happened. It was just all so … fucked." There, a speech worthy of Dumble dore himself, surely.

Hermione nodded, freeing her hand to trace his lips, her eyes following the motion as avidly as she would read a particularly fascinating line from a book.

As suddenly as he had been overtaken by grief, Ron was consumed by a different emotion entirely. He stood on unsteady legs, pulling her up with him.

The room was charged with an invisible force almost tangible in its intensity. Hermione looked up at him with something wonderful and frightening in her brown eyes. Something ancient and all at once new. He licked his lips nervously, amused when she mimicked the gesture.

They had kissed before, but it had never been with the kind of frantic passion they had experienced in the heat of battle. Since then, their few brief encounters had been remarkably chaste, sweet and young in a world where no one was innocent anymore. He had been killing himself with brief, respectful embraces and closed mouth kisses.

Ron was terribly afraid of ruining it all by releasing the torrent of lust and longing he kept locked inside.

She would be astonished and disgusted if she knew what he was feeling when they were alone like this. Worse, he could hurt her with his clumsy attentions. She was so tiny …

He stroked his hands from her shoulders to fingertips and back again, giving in to his need for physical contact. She raised her arms to encircle his neck, pulling him so close that he could feel her body heat. His hands itched to pull her closer, to crush her against him, but he settled for resting one on the small of her freshly healed back, burrowing the other into her adorably frazzled mass of hair, assisting in its inevitable escape from her plait.

She raised her face sweetly in anticipation and he was lost.

Her lips were warm and soft beneath his. She parted them on a tiny sigh and he used the opportunity to nudge his tongue past her sweet lips, gaining entry to the warm recesses of her mouth. It felt primal and satisfying, like he was marking her as his own. She tentatively reached out the tip of her tongue to slide against his and he felt a jolt directly to his groin. His arms pulled her closer without his leave until they stood pressed as tightly together as was possible with the way he was forced to bend down to meet her.

She made a tiny sound in the back of her throat, arching against him so he could feel her breasts crushed against his chest. They stumbled, falling as the couch caught the back of her knees.

Suddenly she was soft and warm and so beautifully _alive_ beneath him as they tangled together on the couch. Nothing existed beyond the touch and scent and oh god, the _taste_ of her. She writhed beneath him as he traced her lips with his tongue, framing her beautiful face with his hands.

Her hands clutched frantically on his back and in his hair, pushing and pulling him where she wanted him to go. Her need for control was so typically Hermione that he would have laughed if his lips were not already occupied with a far more interesting activity.

She arched against him, exposing the pale flesh of her throat to his wandering mouth. He couldn't get enough of her; he wanted to devour her whole. Her frantic motions caused one of his muscular thighs to slip between hers and they both froze.

Holding his gaze, she slowly clenched her thighs around his, causing him to shudder all over. She was so fucking _soft_. He desperately wanted to lower himself on top of her, so their bodies touched all over, but he was afraid. They'd never done anything like this before. It was all so wonderful and terrifying.

What would she think if she could feel what she was doing to him? The evidence of his desire throbbed between them and he was reluctant to press against her. What if she was frightened? Or embarrassed, or disgusted? His inner debate was rendered moot as she took control and pushed his knee out from under him, causing him to fall against her entirely.

They both sucked in their breath at the full body contact, locking eyes and then lips as Ron lifted some of his weight from her with a forearm beneath her neck. He was almost afraid of crushing her.

They tangled lips and tongues together until he tore his lips away to kiss and nibble at every available inch of exposed flesh, growling with frustration as he encountered the collar of her blouse. That was a barrier to be broken another day, for now he would have to be content with the bounty freely offered him. He dragged his mouth back to hers, moaning as she sucked his tongue into her mouth. He was too far gone to even feel embarrassed about the noises he was making.

Her hands felt cool against his heated skin as they stole beneath his shirt, exploring his back with increasing boldness.

They both jumped as a crashing sound echoed through the empty corridor, reminding them that they were anything but alone. Ron grabbed his wand and stood, cursing himself for letting his guard down, for being so consumed by Hermione that he couldn't protect her. He turned slowly, taking in the empty room and slowly lowering his wand.

He looked over his shoulder to where Hermione sat self-consciously fiddling with her hair and rumpled clothing. He wanted to laugh as he watched her repeatedly smooth her hands over her hair only to have it bounce right back into disorder every time. He reached a hand up to his own hair only to groan as he discovered that it was just as bad. They had made quite a mess of each other.

He sat down next to her, the foot of space between them feeling absurd after their encounter. She fussed with her blouse, avoiding his gaze. He leaned down until she was forced to look at him.

Her brown eyes were wide and apprehensive. He smiled shyly, a belated blush creeping into his face.

"Hi." His voice sounded strange to his ears. She returned his smile with a shy one of her own. "Hello."

She hesitated, then reached up to tame his hair a bit. He cleared his throat nervously. "Are you, um, you're okay then?" She nodded, then speared him with eyes that looked straight into his heart. "Are you?"

He pulled his head away from her fingers, shaking it so that the shaggy locks fell in typical disarray. He shrugged. "Yeah, I reckon."

They sat for a moment more before he stood to leave, there were just too many emotions floating about that room and he needed to escape.

"Ron? Could I ask you a question?" Her tone was sweet and heartbreakingly normal after everything that had just happened. He nodded.

Hermione tilted her head in a quizzical expression. "Just what precisely is a tit-wanking git?" Ron's face felt like it was on fire. He swallowed nervously. She couldn't possibly be serious. How was he supposed to answer that? And besides, from the way Fred had explained the expression, it wasn't exactly something you could discuss with a girl like Hermione.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, shuffling his feet. She just continued to look at him with innocent curiosity. "I uh… Well you see…" There was just no way he could phrase this without getting his face slapped. "Well it's like this, some blokes … um …"

She astonished him by throwing her head back with unrestrained laughter. She clutched her sides as she rolled about the couch gasping with mirth.

"I'm only _joking_ Ron! Oh, you should have seen your face!" She collapsed as she was consumed with another bout of giggles, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.

Ron stiffened as he realized she was taking the mickey out of him. He opened his mouth, sputtering for a moment. "I – that wasn't bloody nice, Hermione! That's just not funny!"

She didn't even look at him, instead addressing the floor as she was bent double, gasping for air.

"Oh, I beg to differ!"

Ron glared at her furiously before turning on his heel and marching down the corridor, her laughter echoing after him.

* * *

**Thank you for reviewing!**


	7. Chapter 7 Revelation

**Another long chapter. Thank you everyone who reviewed, I loved hearing from you!**

**I own nothing Harry Potter. I'm not J.K. Rowling.**

**Enjoy!

* * *

**

Harry Apparated with a muted pop into the front lawn of the Burrow, but decided against going inside. He turned away and took one of the meandering paths that lead to the orchard. The gravel crunching beneath his feet felt like brittle bones.

It was often difficult to focus on the living when he was constantly surrounded by the voices of the dead. Sometimes he felt like he was back in the Department of Mysteries, standing before the veil as countless voices washed over him from the other side. Faded echoes of the fallen followed him everywhere, even in sleep.

Harry felt differently about death, now that he had experienced it as firsthand as any man still breathing. It was not something he feared for himself, he was no longer burdened by the reflexive fear of the unknown. What plagued Harry was the fear of loss. The fear of Death creeping back into his life to steal away the people he had left.

Kingsley had briefed him on the progress his Aurors were making. Many Death Eaters had been arrested and were awaiting their trials, but more were still at large. Some had even come forward on their own, hoping for a lighter sentence. Kingsley wanted Harry and his friends to stay close to home, out of sight until the majority of villains were in custody. The Death Eaters were essentially of a cult mentality, and the desire for revenge was thick in their veins. Kingsley feared assassination attempts.

They had also discussed ideas for the Memorial Ball, an event to commemorate those that had fallen in battle as well as celebrate their ultimate victory. Harry would rather not have any sort of large celebration, but Kingsley believed it was important for overall morale. People had been working hard to rebuild, and they deserved a reward. He wanted to set the date for June 2, a month exactly from the day Voldemort fell. Harry was concerned that the grieving families of those who had fallen would want a more private memorial on that first grim anniversary.

He had refrained from voicing his objections, and had given the nod for the Minister to proceed with his plans. Harry's shoulders slumped forward as he walked the familiar path. Along with his more serious concerns, he really did not relish informing the Weasley boys that they would need to scrounge up some formalwear for the occasion.

He heard a faint sound ahead and drew his wand, dropping to a crouch as he surveyed the orchard. He could just make out two pairs of legs through the trees, one pair clad in trousers nearly two inches too short and the other in torn but tidy slacks. They were standing quite still, yet the slight space between them seemed pronounced in the quickly diminishing light of dusk. Ron and Hermione. Harry stood and changed direction, heading instead for the pond. He had no wish to become involved in whatever row or more embarrassing display of affection they were undoubtedly headed for.

Hermione leaned back against a tree, finding comfort in the rough texture of bark beneath her hands. She didn't know what to do with them, as her hands had developed an alarming tendency to migrate towards Ron, running over his face or reaching for his hand. She looked down at his feet, clad in trainers that had clearly seen their best days several brothers before him. They had Apparated separately, and yet both had appeared in nearly the same spot in the orchard. Strange, that.

She chanced a quick peek at his face, but his features were cast in shadow, unreadable. Perhaps he was still angry from her little jest. He had a tendency to hold a grudge, but it had just been too much for her to resist. He embarrassed so easily, and she loved the look of outrage he would get once he realized he was being made an object of fun. She giggled, remembering how adorable he had been while attempting to explain a phrase she already knew to be particularly filthy.

He scowled at her laughter. "It really wasn't all that funny, Hermione."

She immediately assumed a grave expression. "No, of course not." Her eyes sparkled up at him with suppressed humor. He watched her warily, like she was one of the twins about to pull a prank on him.

He put his hands in his pockets, hitching up his already too short trousers another quarter inch. Hermione could now clearly see his ankles in their wildly mismatched socks. She would have to remember to charm his laundry to keep pairs together.

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but then shut with a snap. Rubbing one hand across the back of his neck, he turned slightly away from her, facing the setting sun over the hills. He stood silently for a moment before speaking.

"So. Wha' do we do now?"

Hermione regarded him in silence. What did he mean by that? They would do as they had always done, surge onward to fight another day. Support Harry in whatever insane quest was required of him. Rebuild the homes and families that had been torn down under the Dark Lord. Go in the house and sit down for supper. Is that what he meant? She decided the most logical course of action was to ask.

"What do you mean precisely?"

He rocked back on his heels a few times, both hands shoved deep in his pockets. He still would not look at her.

"I mean ..." He sighed. " Hermione, I mean us. You and me." He stooped down to pick up a rock, flinging it to bounce in the grass.

Hermione felt frozen against the tree. She had never expected Ron to be the one to bring that up. Discussing the finer points of their relationship had never seemed to be among his priorities. Now she found herself gaping like a fish, floundering for something to say.

"I suppose we continue on as we are. If you ... if that is still what you want." Her voice faded at the last, softening with doubt.

The possibility that that was _not_ what he wanted burned through her body, setting in as a conflagration in her heart. She was a woman who knew her own shortcomings. She was bossy and a bit of a know-it-all. She could overlook important things in her rigid devotion to logic and reason. She was more comfortable with books than with people. She didn't devote much time to her appearance, focusing instead on things she believed to be more important. Many saw her as cold and intimidating, but she had always hoped that Ron was different. He gave her a sense of humor, an outlet for her emotions. He made her feel so human, so alive. She needed him.

He had gone as still as death, staring over the hills though the sun was now gone.

"So you want to, um, continue as just … as friends, then?"

Hermione gripped the tree so hard she felt bits of bark work their way beneath her fingernails. Her voice was low when she spoke.

"That is not exactly what I meant."

He looked at her with clear blue eyes brimming with an odd concoction of fear and hope and something else she found difficult to discern. He stepped toward her, looking surprised at himself as he pushed a curl back from her cheek. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"So what did you mean? What do you want, 'Mione?"

The endearment burst something in her heart, filling her body with bubbling warmth like she had bathed in champagne. She closed her eyes and turned into his hand, which played idly with her wayward curl. She found herself whispering as well, despite the fact that they were completely alone.

"You."

His hand stilled as he took another step closer. His lips pulled up at the corners in a sheepish sort of lopsided grin.

His voice was still quiet, but it took on a fierce sort of emphasis.

"You mean, like a boyfriend?" She nodded, pressing her forehead against his chest so he could not see the flames engulfing her face.

This was it then, the point of no return.

They had been hurtling toward this moment for what seemed like years now. This would change everything; she only hoped it was for the better. Things had been different between them for a while, most notably since that first impetuous kiss. Yet so much had been left unspoken. Saying things aloud like this made it all the more solid and real.

"Brilliant." He whispered against her ear, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine.

She turned her head to find her lips instantly captured, her hands running up his sides to sink into his hair. There was nothing like this, nothing in any book she had read could describe exactly how this felt.

"Oi, you lot! Quit snogging and come in for supper!" Charlie's voice broke them apart as surely as pulling hands.

Ron raised one arm to his brother in a vulgar gesture before holding his hand out to Hermione in silent invitation. She took it and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Things really were changing between them.

They set off for the house, each with a silly grin planted firmly on their flushed faces.

Ron couldn't stop smiling. She _wanted_ him. Him! Hermione Granger wanted _him_, Ron Weasley, git extraordinaire. She had said so, just now. He had seen plenty of amazing things in his short life, but this really took the cake.

He was her boyfriend, though he rather thought he probably had been for weeks now, today she had said it. And that meant …

He looked down at the top of her head, wreathed in a halo of riotous curls. That meant that she was his girlfriend. _His_.

The completely inappropriate sense of well, _ownership_ he had always felt for her was finally justified. Now he actually had some right to feel as possessive as he did. He winced as he remembered how that feeling had surfaced with disastrous results at the bloody Yule Ball. That had been the moment he had seen her in another man's arms and felt pure rage, because she was _his_. He had shocked himself with the depth of his conviction that she belonged to him and him alone.

Her hand moved in his, her clever little thumb stroking softly over his freckled skin. He tried to reign in his sense of triumph. If she ever caught wind of the fact that he believed, deep down, that she belonged to him … well, things may not go well for him. Hermione was a modern young witch, after all. She would probably object to such an antiquated attitude. Object being a rather pretty word for what she would do to him. Likely hex his bollocks off, she would.

Ginny looked up hopefully as she heard the door open, only to be disappointed when it was just her stupid brother, accompanied by a rather flushed Hermione. Good crackers, the girl was practically _glowing_, like she was part veela or something. Whatever they had been up to, they better not get caught out and ruin it for everyone else looking to snog.

She propped her chin on her hand, resuming her endless search out the window. Where in Hades _was _he? He hadn't been at Hogwarts today, and Dad said he wasn't with the Order. He was being maddeningly secretive, as usual.

"Elbows off the table, Ginny!"

Ginny did as she was told; pulling a face when Mum's back was turned. She sullenly passed on each dish that came to her, only putting enough on her plate to keep Mum's mouth shut. She really wasn't very hungry. This was the third time he had missed supper this week.

Something warm and squishy struck her cheek, and she screeched with outrage. She looked down the table, skipping over Percy's severe expression and Charlie's obvious devotion to his own plate. Ron seemed completely wrapped up in Hermione; she doubted he had taken a single bite. How exceedingly odd.

She finally landed on George, who was looking at the ceiling while whistling a rather bawdy tune and twiddling his thumbs, a complete picture of false innocence. Angelina sat beside him, letting out a huge guffaw as she caught Ginny's eye, swiftly lifting her napkin to her lips to try and conceal her mirth. Ginny glared at them, but the sight of her brother having some fun at her expense, simply being _George_, pulled at her heartstrings so sharply that tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She gave them an evil smile before loading a bit of mash onto her spoon and letting it fly.

"Now see here!" Percy shouted as he removed his spectacles to clean the sticky goo from them.

"Children!" Mum banged her hand on the table and pointed at Ginny admonishingly. She opened her mouth to launch into a typical Weasley dinner tirade but she froze at a captivating sound.

Laughter. George was laughing.

It began with a snicker and erupted into full hilarity as Angelina collapsed against his shoulder, shaking with mirth as she pointed at Percy.

Percy stood shocked for a moment before replacing his spectacles with a chuckle and a murmured. "All in good fun."

Soon the entire table was laughing. It was as though something had been holding them back; keeping them bound up tight, and now they were finally set loose. George's laughter had been sorely missed; it was like the sun had gone away for a time and now it was back.

The welcome sound washed over Ginny, seeping deep into the cracks in her heart.

Supper proceeded as usual from that point, but something was different in the air. A new sense of lightness had come over them, lessening the intolerable burden on their hearts.

She helped her mother with the dishes and hugged Angelina goodbye before heading outside to keep her own solitary version of Potterwatch.

George hung back as his family descended on Angelina, drowning her in warm hugs and escalating farewells shouted over each other. He followed her out, catching up to her with a few strides of his long legs. She tossed a smile over her shoulder, but kept walking. He drew alongside her, placing his hand casually on her back. His favorite place on a woman's back, where her waist flared out to meet her arse. He remembered how Fred had described the glories of this particular arse in loving detail in the darkness of their room. He had been right, it was spectacular. The kind of arse whiny blokes with floppy hair should write bloody poems about. His hand started to drift lower along with his thoughts.

"Ow, bloody hell!" He shook his hand as the sharp stinging sensation slowly faded.

Angelina tucked her wand back in her pocket with a satisfied expression.

"Serves you right, you randy git."

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned down the path to the garden. George felt like the breath was knocked out of him as he realized just where she was headed. He came to an abrupt halt, his arms swinging uselessly at his sides.

No. He couldn't …

He just wasn't ready for that yet. This was too private, too personal. Fred was _his_. His other half, buried in the garden. This was where he came to get away, to lick his wounds. To talk to his brother, like he was still here, like he could answer back. It wasn't something he could share.

Oh, he knew his family came out here, his Mum put sissy flowers on the … on the grave every day. George exploded the bouquets each night, giving Fred a show he couldn't see, but George knew he would appreciate. Yes, his family came, but they never came out here with him, they let him go alone. He needed that, he didn't need anyone getting all bloody concerned and sending him to St. Mungos when they heard how he talked to his dead twin.

His chest felt heavy, like a festering wound about to burst. The laughter of the day faded into insignificance before the harsh light of reality. No amount of laughter could bring Fred back. There was not a joke in the world that could elicit the sound he longed for most, Fred's laughter; deeper and heartier than his own. Grief and rage warred within him, his broken heart caught in the crossfire.

Angelina slowed and turned once she realized he no longer followed her. Her big brown eyes took in his stricken expression, his rigid pose. She walked back to him, gliding in the moonlight like a ghost. She reached out a hand to touch his face but he jerked away. Her full lower lip trembled.

"Oh, George …"

He looked at her, but her face seemed blurry, unfocused. That feeling was back, like none of this was real, he was caught in a living nightmare. He wanted to disappear, to sink into the rich soil and lie beside his brother. He wanted to wake up to Fred calling him a nancy boy for all his weeping. Tears flowed freely down his face, but he couldn't feel them. He was numb, wrapped up tight in a cocoon. He should have been ashamed, crying in front of a girl, but he felt nothing. He didn't even bother wiping his face, his hands were shaking too badly anyway.

Angelina was weeping silently, her eyes fixed to his face, bleak now with grief. Her breath was shaky and uneven as she spoke.

"I'm sorry, I just – I need to see him, Georgie. Please?"

George just looked at her, his eyes bottomless pools of sorrow in his pale face. He turned abruptly and walked away, stumbling as he half ran into the thick row of trees off to the side. Everything was suddenly too much to bear. He needed somewhere private, quiet. Somewhere no concerned family or friend could find him. Angelina called after him, her voice thick with tears. Turning quickly, he Disapparated, leaving her staring at empty space.

She fell to her knees, sobbing for endless moments before she shook herself sternly and got to her feet. She walked to the little mound of earth that held her best friend, her lover. She sat in a pile of burnt and shattered roses and leaned her head against the cool stone.

"What a mess you've left, Freddy. George is … he's not doing well, and I don't know what to do. I … sweet Christ I miss you, you great prat."

She stayed that way for a while, pushing her hot rage and sorrow into the cold marble. Eventually her swollen eyes fell shut and she curled up beside the garden, slowly drifting to sleep.

Ron got ready for bed, unaccountably nervous as he pulled back the blankets, then put them back up, then pulled them back again. He was filled with anxious energy. It felt different somehow, waiting for Hermione to come to bed. They couldn't pretend that this was just about nightmares anymore. This was about … them. Needing each other in a way they didn't need anyone else.

The door opened and he turned, automatically raising his wand. It was only Harry, looking even sadder than usual. His best mate didn't even nod at him; he just went to his bed and curled up in his clothes, his back facing Ron. Not generally a good sign.

Ron stared at his friend's motionless back. He wondered if Ginny had even gotten to speak to him today, he knew she was looking for him after supper. Sometimes it seemed like Harry didn't even need his cloak to become invisible. He just slipped away somewhere to think deep thoughts and prepare for martyrdom.

Ron sighed. That wasn't really fair of him. It's not Harry's fault that he always had such mad shite to deal with. Ron just wished that he felt like he could confide in his best mate once in a while.

The door swung open with a soft creak and he spun, wand in hand. His tendency to leave his dirty laundry wherever it fell caught up to him as he slipped on a dirty sock, falling hard on his bum. His wand flew up with a series of graceful acrobatics before bouncing off the wall and rolling under the bed.

His ensuing litany of curses was interrupted by Hermione.

"Oh dear! Are you all right?"

She knelt beside him, putting her hand to his forehead as if to feel for fever. He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous gesture. He wasn't sick, he was bloody clumsy! He shrugged away from her touch, gingerly climbing to his feet with the help of his nightstand.

"Yeah, yeah. 'M fine."

He spent some time pretending to dust off his threadbare pajama trousers, waiting for his face to return to a normal color. He eventually looked up to find her staring at his bed like it was going to bite her. He looked closely at it, but everything seemed perfectly normal to him. No beasts or such hidden in the covers. Even the scent of ghoul had faded away weeks ago.

He looked back at her curiously. What was going on in that brilliant little mind of hers? He stepped toward her and she immediately retreated, biting her lip nervously. She gestured toward the door, the thick white cotton of her nightgown swinging with the motion. She glanced at Harry, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"Perhaps this isn't a good idea, Ron. Maybe I should just – "

He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder before she could reach the doorknob. With a quick check to make sure Harry was ignoring them, he leaned down so she could hear his soft words.

"What's wrong? You know you can stay. I – I want you to stay."

He swallowed, suddenly nervous. Saying things like that aloud made him feel vulnerable. He didn't like it. He examined her face for some kind of sign. Was this just another mad thing girls did to confuse poor unsuspecting males?

Merlin's Beard! If she didn't stop biting her lip like that he might have to do something drastic. Like pin her up against the wall and snog her brains out. A rather tall order, considering the amount of brains in that head.

Hermione twisted her hands in front of her, their thin shape almost lost in the voluminous folds of her gown. How he loved and hated the prim little gowns she wore to bed, buttoned up to her chin and falling to her ankles. It was like covering a masterpiece with a sheet. Still, it was kinda sexy …

Her soft voice pulled him out of his randy imaginings like a bucket of ice water.

"I don't know … everything is different now isn't it? We aren't exactly … I mean; you're my _boyfriend_, Ron! It isn't proper."

Her apprehensive eyes went to the bed again and Ron was suddenly struck with a revelation. She was looking at his bed like that because she was remembering how things had gone the last time they had been horizontal. His face immediately erupted in flames. He rushed to reassure her that he wasn't the randy beast he knew himself to be.

"Yeah, I know." He rubbed one hand on the back of his neck, searching her eyes for the right thing to say. "Look, I promise I won't try to … um … _do _anything, right? It'll be just like it was before."

He waited in suspense while Hermione scrunched her face in concentration, probably calculating possible outcomes or something. She seemed to come to some sort of conclusion as she looked up at him and nodded.

Her voice was still soft, but she sounded more confident when she spoke.

"Well. You should probably get your wand." She pointed under his bed.

Ron nodded furiously, flooded with relief. She was going to stay! He got down on the floor and rummaged through the piles of laundry and sweets wrappers under his bed until his fingers closed on the familiar shape of his wand.

He stood, holding it triumphantly, to find her perched on the edge of the bed, her lips kicked up at the corners. She flushed when he caught her eye, scrambling with an uncharacteristic lack of grace to get under the covers. He watched her settle in, an odd feeling in the back of his throat. She was _his_, now. And she was in his bed. Bloody brilliant, that.

He tucked his wand under his pillow and climbed in next to her, straining to keep a few inches between their bodies in the tiny bed. She turned away from him on her side. He stared at the curve of her back, admiring the soft flare of her hips in the moonlight. Absolutely brilliant.

"Goodnight, Ron."

"Yeah, 'Night." He smiled, closing his eyes and relaxing as he felt her weight shift beside him. All in all, it had been a damn good day.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	8. Chapter 8 Promise

**I don't own anything Harry Potter, but J.K. Rowling does.**

**Thanks for the reviews, I'm always glad to hear from you!**

**A/N : I'm trying out elipses (...) as line breaks between POV changes. The spaces and indents I use in Word always disappear when I upload the chapters. I'm fairly new at using the Document Manager, so bear with me, if you please. If anyone has advice, feel free to share!  
**

**This one's mostly George, but of course there will be plenty of R/Hr coming soon! Enjoy!**

**

* * *

  
**

The muggle boys laughed as George stumbled and fell with a splash into the filthy puddle. Their leader stepped forward, brandishing a stick as thick as his pudgy wrist. His disturbingly pig-like nose glowed red in the cold.

"I thought I told you to stay outta our way, freaks."

He put one dirty trainer on Fred's chest, bearing down until the smaller boy coughed violently. George struggled to stand, his feet slipping in the thick mud.

"You leave 'im alone!"

He charged forward, his shaggy red head bent down like a cannonball. The world reeled around him as the boy swung his stick, hitting George on the side of his head.

Suddenly huge red sparks flew all around them, lighting up the cloudy sky. The muggles screamed and ran, crying as the sparks chased after them, scorching the seats of their trousers.

George lay beside his brother in the mud, waiting for the sky to stop spinning. Fred turned on his side and coughed, his shoulders shaking. The shaking grew increasingly violent and George began to get scared. He pulled at Fred's shoulder until he turned around, collapsing in the mud. He was laughing.

"Didja see their faces, George? Blimey, that big one was cryin' for 'is Mum like a bloody girl!"

George shook his head. "You shouldn'ta done that, Fred. If Mum finds out you did magic on some muggles-"

Fred pushed George's back into the ground, his hands on his shoulders as he leaned his dripping face over his twin.

"But she won't find out, will she? It's just you an' me. There's no one to tell on us. Precious Percy is off at school and Ickle Ronnie's prolly cryin' at home."

George knew he was right. And they both knew he would never tell on Fred. What his twin did was what he did. They never played separately, and they were always punished together. It would be like telling on himself. He pushed Fred off of him, sitting up to cradle his throbbing head.

Fred dropped a handful of mud onto his hair. George sighed as the gooey substance dripped down into his ears. He grabbed a handful and turned, holding it up like a snowball. Fred dodged as he threw it.

"C'mon, George! Don't be a wet blanket. I made 'em cry. Bleedin' funny, that was. Why aren't you laughing?"

George pulled a face and stood, walking away into the grassy field that led back to the Burrow. He didn't have to look over his shoulder; he knew Fred would follow him.

He fell with an undignified squeak as Fred tackled him, landing them both in the tall grass.

"Geroff me, prat!" Fred was barely able to hold his arms down; they were so evenly matched in strength.

"No. Listen to me, George, I've realized something, an' I think it's really important."

George stopped struggling and Fred released him, sitting back on his knees with an expectant expression.

"Alright, what's so bloody important, then?" George sat up and wiped his face with a filthy sleeve, succeeding only in moving the thick layer of mud around.

Fred looked at him with uncharacteristic seriousness etched in his familiar features.

"Look George, this is the way it is: Either you're the one laughing, or you're the one being laughed at, yeah? So you an' me, we've just gotta always be the ones laughing."

George regarded him silently, dirty water dripping from his hair in thick rivulets down his face.

Fred grabbed his shoulder, his small fingers grasping almost painfully tight.

"Promise me, George. Promise we'll always be the ones laughing."

George looked deep into the blue eyes that were mirrors of his own and nodded solemnly.

"Alright, Fred. I promise."

George woke up to a throbbing head and rolling stomach. He felt like he had been trampled by a herd of Centaur. He struggled to lift his head, finding it glued to the coarse wooden table by a congealed puddle of drool. Bloody fantastic.

He looked around, squinting in the indecently bright light of morning. Someone should really turn the effing sun down before it killed him. He turned his head, groaning as the motion induced a fresh wave of nausea. Where the devil was he?

A hint of motion drew his blurry gaze to the dirty hem of floor length mustard yellow skirts. He raised his eyes, taking in the serving witch slowly. She was a nice enough bird, he supposed. Pleasantly rounded with blondish curls bouncing around her face. Maybe she could tell him where he was. Or drive a spike through his head and put him out of his misery. Either one, really. He opened his mouth to ask.

She smiled at him. "Well, what 'ave we 'ere, now. I know ye, don't I?"

George lifted his eyebrows. He'd never set eyes on the witch. Her thick accent told him he was far from Ottery St Catchpole.

She set down her tray loaded with dirty glasses and put her hands on her hips. Her brow knit in concentration. She snapped her fingers as a light dawned in her face.

"I've got it! Yer that Weasel boy. Now, wha' wassat name?"

She looked at George, and he stared back blankly, wondering where he had met this witch that he didn't remember her. A sense of foreboding overcame him. What had he done last night?

She continued. "Fred! Yer Fred, ain't ye?"

George sat very still for a moment and then nodded. Her smile changed, growing more flirtatious. She looked him up and down brazenly.

"Well, I've gotta say, darlin'; ye look a fair bit like hell. Rough night wassit?"

She hefted her tray with a broad wink in his direction.

"I'd be willin' t'bet ye were 'ere for some gel or other. Looks t'me like she turned ye down. Drownin' yer sorrows, were ye luv?"

She sauntered off past some swinging doors that presumably led to the kitchens, her hips swaying in an exceedingly interesting manner.

George struggled to get his bearings. He was in a bar of some sort. Where the serving girl knew Fred. He sighed. That could be anywhere in the bloody country. Fred had believed in spreading his affections as far as possible. He had always laughed at George for his one girl at a time approach. Said he was missing out on the best bits of life by being stingy with himself. Said there was never enough Weasley twin to go around, and it was their sacred duty to allow as many girls as possible a chance at the real thing. Fred had said a lot of things. George cocked an ear as he heard the girl speaking to someone in the back.

" …oh, s'just that ginger nob whats always gaggin' for it. Ye know 'im, 'e got a leg up on Sally last summer." "Sally's a tart." "Yeah, well 'e din't seem ter mind much!" Dishes clattered over the sound of female laughter.

George stood on watery knees, listing a bit as he rushed to leave the establishment. The light stabbed his bloodshot eyes as he all but fell through the door. He found himself standing in the middle of a narrow cobblestoned road lined with ancient looking buildings. He squinted up at the gnarled wooden sign swinging over his head. The Red Boar Pub. He leaned back against the crumbling exterior and gathered his strength. Holding his head with his hands, for he was sure it would fall off his shoulders otherwise, he Disapparated.

...

Angelina jumped at a sudden loud noise, startled to find herself sleeping in what at first appeared to be a pile of detritus. She sat up, stretching her stiff neck, to be confronted with the cold hard facts in the shape of a cold hard tombstone. Shite. She had fallen asleep beside Fred's grave, hadn't she? That didn't seem terribly healthy of her emotionally. She used the stone to push herself to her feet.

Her heart stopped beating when she found herself looking into Fred's beautiful eyes.

No. Not Fred. George. Fred's eyes had never looked so haunted, so broken. She shook herself sternly. There was no need for theatrics. Fred was gone and that was that. And George … George needed a friend. A friend who wasn't constantly weeping for his brother.

He held her gaze silently for a few moments before turning abruptly to vomit behind the shrubbery. Angelina sighed.

" 'Salright, George, I often have that effect on men."

She pulled out her wand and summoned a glass of water from the kitchen.

He was lying half in the garden, half on the path, with both hands pressed to his face. She sat beside him and held out the water. He took it, rinsing his mouth and spitting with impressive distance. The twins had always been very competitive when it came to rude bodily functions.

He threw the glass against a tree and she flinched as it shattered. He turned to look at her with his face twisted in anger.

"What the bloody hell are you still doing here?"

She shrugged, pulling bits of leaves and burnt rose petals out of her hair. "Seemed as good a place as any, I suppose."

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she continued to remove the evidence of her impromptu camping trip. His gaze was strange somehow … she realized suddenly that he was avoiding looking directly at the grave, like it was invisible. Or like he could make it invisible through sheer force of will.

She gave him a severe look. "Well, I can see you had an interesting night. You reek of liquor and cheap perfume."

He laughed harshly. "Just like Fred, yeah?"

She flinched. Fred's infidelity had always been a sore point for her. He would have broken her heart, if she went in for that kind of nonsense. Regardless, the git had been so charming that they had remained good friends even after she had given him the boot. It had always been impossible to stay mad at him.

She looked at George, absorbing the rage now emanating from his body. It was impossible to stay mad with either of them. Let George take his anger out on her, she could handle whatever he could dish out.

She stood and straightened her shoulders, towering over his pale form sprawled on the ground.

"So. You going to work on your impression of a garden slug or are you going to help me figure out what to do with all those knickers?"

George didn't respond at first, he simply lay there with one arm flung across his eyes. Then he sat up straight as an arrow.

"I've got an idea."

His voice was calm, but she could sense that familiar tinge of excitement that had always come when one of the twins developed something diabolical. She relaxed slightly. He was still there, beneath the grief and rage and loneliness. Whatever ridiculous plan he had concocted, she would make it happen. Seeing a glimpse of the old George was worth any price.

...

Hermione approached Harry quietly, walking up behind him where he stood staring out over the pond. She was almost afraid that he would disappear if he heard her coming. She stood close beside him, but he gave no indication that he knew she was there. She cleared her throat. Still nothing. He was like a statue.

"Well. I've had quite enough of this." Her voice seemed overly loud in the quiet morning air.

Harry shifted slightly, still looking across the water.

"Enough of what?"

Hermione felt some relief that he was responding at least.

"Enough of _this_. This quiet avoidance you've been inflicting on all of us. You need to-"

Harry interrupted "Don't tell me what I need to do Hermione."

She continued like he hadn't spoken. "You need to remember that we're here for you. Ron, me, Ginny-"

"I don't want to talk about Ginny."

Hermione gave him one of her trademark looks of disdain.

"Well that much is obvious. You won't talk about anything or anyone. And you certainly won't talk _to_ anyone, particularly Ginny. Ron thinks you're being overly noble again, but I think you're just being idiotic."

Harry looked at her for the first time, his green gaze shuttered and distant.

"Aren't you supposed to be at Hogwarts?"

Hermione felt a blush begin to burn across her cheeks, she hoped Harry wouldn't notice.

"We decided to stay here today, Ron and I." She did not add that Ron had decided it was too dangerous for her to continue working on Hogwarts and she had decided that rather than arguing she should take the opportunity for some privacy in the empty house. Time alone with Ron was a scarce commodity.

Harry looked back toward the house.

"So where is he then? I would have expected you to launch a two-pronged attack at the very least, Hermione."

She glared at him.

"This isn't an attack. This is me acting as your best friend, telling you to wake up and join the rest of us."

Harry shrugged. "I'm right here, Hermione. I haven't gone anywhere."

"Yes, you're here physically, but sometimes it's like part of you just … isn't present. You go off somewhere we can't follow you. And that … it hurts, Harry. It hurts all of us, though you'd never get Ron to admit it. "

Harry sighed, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside him. "What do you want me to do, Hermione? Things are … different now. I can't just pretend that I'm suddenly living a normal life. I've been a bit … distant, yes, but I'm doing it for you. You and Ron, you need something normal, something good, and I don't want to mess that all up for you. You know as well as I do that I only complicate things for you."

Hermione watched him with sad eyes.

"What about Ginny, then? Are you afraid of complicating things for her, or are you just afraid?"

Harry stiffened, turning his body to face her.

"Are you accusing me of being a coward now?"

Hermione hesitated, then nodded firmly.

"You're afraid of yourself, Harry. You're afraid to let yourself love and be loved. I think …" She bit her lip uncertainly, not wanting to continue but aware that it needed to be said. "I think you're afraid that you don't deserve to be truly loved; the way you know she loves you."

Harry looked at his feet.

"Ron's right. You think too much."

"Harry …"

"Enough! It's really none of your business, what goes on between me and Ginny. Or what … what doesn't go on. "

Hermione clasped her hands behind her back, aching to hug the sadness out of her friend's eyes.

"I know. I just want you to be happy, Harry. I've learned so much this past year, and not much of it from books. I didn't really expect to survive, you know. Everything was so … horrible for a while, but now we have another chance. Hasn't everything that happened shown you how incredibly transient life is? We have only this moment to live. There is no better time than now, Harry. We must grasp at whatever bits of life are granted us."

Harry stood very still for a while, just looking at her. Then a smile grew slowly across his face until it became an outright grin.

"Yeah, well I think Ron might be grasping a little too hard. You've a mark on your neck, just there."

He raised his hand to the right side of his own neck in demonstration.

Hermione felt her face burst into flames as she immediately clapped a hand to her neck. Harry laughed at the gesture, the sound filling her with relief. She cleared her throat.

"Since you have nothing better to do than to comment on my … personal life, you can join Ron in degnoming the garden."

Harry groaned. "And what are you going to do while we're slaving away?"

Hermione flipped her hair over her shoulder. It had gotten quite long and was barely manageable. She would need to cut it soon before it reached her waist. She assumed a superior tone of voice.

"I am going to clean the pigsty that you and Ron have been calling a room. You don't mind if I clean out your trunk and things, do you?"

Harry cocked his head curiously.

"No, that's fine. Say, does Ron know you'll be going through his things?"

Hermione felt a second blush wash over the remains of the first. If she was completely honest with herself, she was rather looking forward to the opportunity to learn some things about her not particularly verbal boyfriend. She would consider it research, rather than snooping.

"I didn't want to give him too much warning; he would just throw everything into a closet or something and make it worse."

Harry made a noncommittal noise, his face settling into a knowing smirk as he turned to walk to the gardens.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!  
**


	9. Chapter 9 Mischief Managed

**I don't own Harry Potter, or Ron Weasley, more's the pity. All Harry Potterness belongs to J.K. Rowling**

**This is a quick update for me, the next chapter will probably take a bit longer. Thanks for the feedback, people! I do appreciate it.**

**I'm still using ellipses for the time being. Let me know if it is or isn't working for you. Thanks, Enjoy!**

**

* * *

  
**

Hermione bustled about the small attic room, collecting small piles of Ron and Harry's belongings to be sorted out and organized. She had already filled two rubbish bins with the random bits of garbage that had been mixed into the dirty laundry and discarded objects. Sweets wrappers, abandoned newspapers featuring Harry, crumpled and inkstained parchment, and one particularly disgusting bowl of unidentifiable food that had been nearing the birth of a new unsavory species of fungi. All went into the bin, the last discovery carefully handled from afar with a bit of deft wandwork.

She sneezed in the thick cloud of dust she had disturbed, waving her wand to create a breeze and send it all flying out the one small window at the far end of the room. She looked down at her hands, which to her complete lack of surprise were absolutely filthy.

She simply could not comprehend the level of grime her boys had been able to achieve in such a short time. They had been much cleaner when they all lived in the tent, admittedly mostly through her efforts and enforcement. They had had far less to throw around, certainly no sweets wrappers. And their minds had been occupied with guiding the fate of the entire wizarding world in the right direction. She supposed that they were more relaxed now, which apparently led to the complete destruction of their living space.

She raised her arms to pull her hair back from her face, twisting it into a lopsided bun and securing it with a broken quill she had found under Harry's nightstand. It was getting quite warm, and her hair kept sticking to her neck and forehead, slick with perspiration. She removed her blouse, stripping down to her soft knit camisole and lightweight trousers. She folded the garment neatly and placed it on top of the newly dusted dresser, safely separated from the nightmarish piles of clothing tangled together on the floor. It was no wonder that Ron's socks were always mismatched; it was a miracle that he was even able to compose any sort of outfit from this mess.

Hermione opened his dresser drawers, stunned to discover that apparently the reason his clothing was consigned to the floor was that his dresser was filled with quidditch paraphernalia. The top drawer was occupied mostly by magazines and newspapers with articles featuring the Chudley Cannons. Ticket stubs were randomly stuffed between the pages, dating back more than a decade. The next drawer held an odd assortment of fan gear; shirts, hats, badges, even a fake wand that Hermione shook to emit orange sparks spelling out the phrase "Knock 'em dead, Cannons!" . Odder still was a large orange foam hand which repeatedly crossed its fingers, written in faded black lettering around the wrist was the motto "Let's keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best!"

The final drawer was nearly empty, the few objects dwelling within rolling about as she opened it. An old piece of leather, cracked and dirty. Possibly a torn piece of uniform or equipment? An empty box of sugar quills. Broken chess pieces. A dingy piece of cloth wrapped around … a small hand mirror? Now that was strange. Ron wasn't exactly the type to check his appearance, certainly not to the point of carrying around a mirror. She turned it over in her hands. It felt familiar somehow. She rubbed her thumb across the plastic casing, trying to place the feeling. She turned it over again and met her own eye in the mirror, stirring a jolt of recognition. This was hers! This was the mirror she had used to look around corners when she suspected that the creature attacking students had been a Basilisk. She had forgotten about it. But why was it here, tucked away in a drawer of Ron's old things? Why had he taken it, and gone to the trouble of keeping it wrapped up in cloth? That had been so long ago, second year; ages before he could have possibly had … feelings for her. She wrapped it up carefully and tucked it back in the drawer.

Second year. She sat down on the floor, staring blankly into space. It all seemed a lifetime ago now. They had been so young, then. Fearless, idealistic, foolhardy. The risks they had taken without blinking an eye … She realized now just how ridiculous it was for three twelve year olds to be the staunchest defenders of freedom. They had taken on the responsibility like a new set of clothing.

She smiled to herself. Ron had been so adorable, with his lopsided grin and hand-me-downs. She looked around his room. Perhaps some things never changed. Still, he had been her knight in tarnished armor even then. She remembered watching him miserably vomiting slugs into a bucket in Hagrid's hut, after unsuccessfully defending her honor, and feeling something strange in her chest. Her heart had been growing, opening up a space just for him, an endless well never to be filled by another.

She stood and got back to work, conjuring wooden crates and filling them with the quidditch collection from the dresser. She left the bottom drawer alone. She sorted out the dirty laundry from the clean and placed Ron's clothing in neatly organized stacks in the two empty drawers of the dresser, his socks in matching pairs. She used more crates to organize Harry's clothing in a neat row on his side of the room. The dirty laundry was sorted into baskets and sent downstairs to join the rest of the family's washing.

She stretched and smiled, feeling a warm sense of accomplishment wash over her. She loved getting things done, having a positive impact on her surroundings. She cheerfully moved on to sorting out the boys' belongings and organizing them on the previously empty shelves lining the room, Harry's to one side and Ron's to the other. She sat on the edge of Harry's bed and looked around, admiring her handiwork. She hoped they would be as pleased as she was by the near-miraculous change she had wrought. She summoned a broom and mop and set them to work revealing a spotless floor while she watched from the bed.

Her eyes landed on Harry's trunk, shoved up against the foot of his bed. She should probably get on with cleaning those out; Merlin only knew what type of mess was contained within. Her gaze strayed to the other side of the room, to Ron's considerably older and obviously well-loved trunk. The battered lid was open slightly, the arm of a maroon jumper caught on the edge. Well, if it was already open … then she should probably start with Ron's trunk. It was perfectly logical, really. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that she was dying to discover whatever secrets he had clumsily stashed within.

She crossed the room and pulled open the lid with a creak of ancient hinges. She felt a bit giddy, actually, like she was opening a greatly anticipated book. She knelt on the floor and began to sort out Ron's belongings. She pulled out his uniforms, then jumpers and trousers, a ratty pair of trainers that were undoubtedly too small, tee shirts worn nearly transparent. She sorted the clothing and put it in the drawers, all except for one jumper. She held the thick maroon wool up to her face, shamelessly inhaling his scent. Amortentia, knitted up into a lopsided jumper. She put it aside, intending to "borrow" it for a while, a hidden treasure locked away in her own trunk.

She was not surprised to discover that rather than being sorted into neat stacks organized by frequency of use, as her trunk had always been, Ron's was lacking in any sort of organization. Everything was thrown together haphazardly, settling into random layers over the years. Broken quills, half written essays, nearly unopened textbooks from fourth year were all mixed up with the requisite sweets wrappers, chocolate frog cards, and Weasley's Wizard's Wheezes products.

Something shoved down in the far corner caught her eye. The small tuft of pastel lace seemed extremely out of place in the collection of masculine items. She reached in and pulled out … a pair of knickers. Green satin trimmed with pink lace and embroidered all over with tiny flowers. She stared, uncomprehending, at the article of clothing in her hands. Why on earth would this be in Ron's trunk? She noticed lettering embroidered across the back, and turned the scrap of satin over to examine it. Her heart absolutely stopped as her stomach sank down to her toes. In fluorescent pink, the words "Lavender Brown" were embroidered with a flourishing script.

…

Ron trudged up the stairs, dirty and dripping with sweat from his efforts in the garden. The gnomes had been unusually cooperative today, perhaps affected by the proximity of Fred's burial place. He raised the hem of his tee shirt to wipe his face, the cloth coming away damp and smudged with soil. Harry had claimed first shower, taking unfair advantage of Ron's greater height to wedge an elbow beneath his ribs as they scuffled for the bathroom door. Ron had been briefly incapacitated, just long enough for Harry to slip in with a triumphant shout.

Ron opened the door to his room to be confronted with an amazing sight. His floor. The expanse of scuffed wooden planking seemed to stretch on forever, unencumbered by a single pair of socks or chocolate frog card. He looked around blankly for a moment, until his eyes settled on Hermione, kneeling beside a neat pile of his stuff before his open trunk.

He was momentarily stunned by the expanse of skin made visible by her skimpy top, a far more welcome sight than his floorboards. Where were her sleeves? He didn't care, as long as they didn't come back. Her arms were pale and graceful, the slender nape of her neck exposed by her upswept hair.

He grinned and started forward, but halted almost immediately. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. The air seemed sharp and brittle around them, crackling like the moment before a storm. He cocked his head and looked at Hermione. She was sitting perfectly still, like she had been petrified. She hadn't even glanced at him yet, and she had to have heard him come in, his footsteps weren't exactly cat-like. He decided to pretend like everything was normal.

"Where's my stuff? "

She did nothing to indicate that she had heard him, so he took a step forward.

"Oi, Hermione. What've you been doing?"

She turned to face him with startling speed, contrasting with her earlier stillness. Her face was a rigid mask. She stood, holding something in her clenched fists, pressed against her stomach.

"Perhaps I should ask you the same thing!" Her tone was cold and cutting.

Ron sighed. Wonderful. He wondered just how she had gotten a doxy in her bonnet this time.

"I was just degnom-"

"I'm fully aware of what you were doing prior to coming upstairs. I'm not the idiot you think I am."

Ron furrowed his brow in utter confusion. He reached out one arm but she stepped back like he had a nasty case of spattergroit. "I- no one thinks you're an idiot, Hermione. You're brilliant. It's kind of scary actually."

She just looked at him, her eyes filled with loathing. He had a sudden flashback to his nightmarish encounter with the locket.

She was absolutely still, but he could sense the fury brewing within her. She suddenly thrust out the object in her hands. Something small and shiny and … lacey?

He looked at her with his eyebrows raised in question.

"What are these, Ronald?" Her words were clipped, each one measured out precisely.

He tilted his head, considering the object, then blushing furiously as he realized what they were.

"Um … knickers?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, the warm brown deepening to almost black.

"Well spotted." She spat out, throwing the knickers at him.

He caught them instinctively before they struck his head, gingerly pinching them between his thumb and forefinger and holding them at arm's length. He looked at Hermione, desperately searching for a clue as to what was going on. Why was she so angry? And why on earth was she throwing her knickers at him?

He glanced at the tiny bit of fabric. He couldn't really imagine Hermione wearing this type of flashy undergarment. He looked back at her, noticing the way her chest heaved with fury beneath her top. Well, actually it turned out that he _could_ imagine Hermione wearing these. Quite vividly.

She was still staring at him expectantly, looking rather like a kettle about to boil.

He gestured vaguely with the knickers. "Um, are these for me, then?"

Her eyebrows swooped down angrily as her lips compressed into near invisibility.

"Oh, don't even pretend that you don't recognize them!"

He looked at them again in puzzlement. Nope, he'd never seen anything quite like that before. The only knickers he'd ever seen were Ginny's and his Mum's, hung up to dry. He shuddered inwardly at the memory.

He shrugged and looked at her blankly, flinching involuntarily as she suddenly lunged forward and snatched them from his hand.

She stood close to him, and he was shocked to see tears welling up in her eyes as she struggled to control her breathing. Even her nostrils quivered with outrage. With sharp, precise movements, she snapped the knickers flat and held them in front of his face.

"Recognize them now, do you?"

He struggled to focus on the fabric shoved into his face. Blimey! These knickers said something. He didn't know they could do that. They said …

His mind went completely blank with horror as all of the blood drained from his face.

Oh.

That was why she was so angry.

She threw them on the floor, stepping back and crossing her arms tightly across her chest.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Ron remained silent. He could literally think of nothing to say. This was a nightmare, surely he would wake up soon and the world would make sense again.

Hermione's lower lip started to quiver so she pressed them tightly together, blinking rapidly. She spoke with a slight tremor.

"I f-found them in your trunk."

Ron just stared at her, uncomprehending, before glancing at the treacherous trunk. Yes, that was definitely his. But why were Lavender's knickers in his trunk? It made no sense whatsoever. He said the first thing that came to his head.

"They're not mine!"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Oh, thank you for the clarification. I believe they're labeled, actually, so I'd figured that bit out for myself."

Ron's chest felt tight with panic. It was so unfair that Hermione remained completely articulate during a row while he struggled to pull a single word out of his arse.

"No! I mean – I mean they're not … I didn't –" He speared his fingers through his hair in frustration, leaving it standing on end.

He took a step toward her, his arms outstretched in supplication.

"Lavender and me, we never, I mean … Look, Hermione, I've never seen those before in my bloody life, alright?"

She shook her head rapidly, backing away from him.

"Don't lie to me." Her voice was quiet but no less terrifying.

"I'm not lying!" His voice was rising to a shout, fueled by panic.

Hermione made a sharp gesture with one arm before tucking it back against her chest.

"Oh, well I suppose it was an accident then, the House Elves must have mixed up your laundry with hers, is that it?"

He shook his head. "I dunno how they got there, I swear Hermio-"

She drew her wand, poking it into his chest.

"I said don't _lie_ to me!" Now she was shrieking like a banshee, her voice rising to meet his.

He looked down at her wand, digging into his flesh, then back up to meet her eyes.

"What, are you goin' to hex me?" His voice dripped incredulity.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, a single tear leaking from the corner. She grew quiet again.

"I should, you know." She looked up into his eyes, searing him with pain at the betrayal and heartbreak he saw written there. Her arm never wavered. "I really thought you were better than that. I never could have imagined that you would keep a-a _trophy_ of your conquest!" She spat out the last word, her voice rising once more to a shout.

Suddenly Ron was angry. No, he was furious. How could she think that of him?

He wrapped his fingers around her wand, but made no effort to move it.

"So that's it, then? You've already convicted me, and I never fucking did anything wrong!"

"Don't swear." Her lips barely moved with the words.

He narrowed his eyes, feeling his ears burn with outrage. "I'll swear if I bloody want to! Everything was fine this morning, and then I come up here and you've dug up a bucket of steaming dragon piss to fling at me!"

She scoffed. "Oh, I'm so sorry if I've inconvenienced you by discovering your precious Lav-Lav's knickers! I must say, you didn't go to much trouble to hide them. Maybe you wanted me to find them." Her eyes challenged him to deny it.

Something snapped in Ron's head, releasing a fresh flood of anger. "And what gave you the right to go sneaking in here and snooping through my things like you're bloody Rita Skeeter!?"

Her head snapped back at the insult, her eyes flashing with rage. "You – you- you're nothing but a-a"

He leaned his head forward, using his height to intimidate. "A what? Out with it!"

He felt a tingling in his chest from the end of her wand and, realizing that she was about to unleash potentially harmful magic, he wrenched it from her grasp and flung it hard against the wall.

Her mouth gaped open like a fish. "How _dare_ you!"

He stepped forward, standing toe to toe so she was forced to strain her head back to look at him. Her hands flew up to press ineffectually against his chest. She made about as much impact as a flea pushing against a griffin.

"How dare _you_? You come in here accusing me of things I would never do, and now you're trying to hurt me with magic!?"

Her hands beat against his chest. "And just what am I supposed to do!? What would you do, if you found a pair of pants that said 'Victor Krum' stashed away in my trunk!?"

Ron saw red. He grabbed her wrists in a punishing grip. His voice dropped to a growl. "I'd better not."

She struggled against him, and, realizing he was hurting her, he released her to clench his hands into fists at his sides. "I'd kill the bastard. And I wouldn't need my fucking wand, because I'd kill him with my bare hands!"

She nodded "So you can see why I-"

"This is different! I'm not a bloody girl!" Now her eyes spat daggers at him.

"So it doesn't matter then? You can just … shag whoever you want and I'm supposed to ignore it!?" She was starting to actually tremble with fury.

"I never bloody shagged anyone!"

"I said don't _lie_!" The impact of her open palm against his cheek echoed loudly in the room.

Ron stood stunned for a moment, watching her raise her hands to her face as she started to cry in earnest. Then he simply turned and stalked to the door, ripping it open with a grating protest of hinges. He slammed it behind him.

…

Harry looked up in surprise as Ron yanked the bathroom door open.

"Yeah, it's all yours mate!" He said cheerfully, stepping forward to give Ron a friendly slap on the arm.

Ron speared him with angry eyes, his mouth tense with fury. "Get. Out." One side of his face glowed even redder than the other.

Harry backed away swiftly, his arms raised in surrender. Ron slammed the door in his face.

"Sorry, then." He addressed the closed door.

He walked up the stairs, wondering what had gotten into Ron.

Then he was nearly knocked down by a sobbing Hermione as she rushed past him to run into Ginny's room. Great. Another row, then.

He shrugged and continued on up to his room without any further obstacles until he nearly slipped on something lying on the otherwise spotless floor.

He picked it up curiously. Knickers.

Remembering the state he had just seen his friends in, he dropped them in horror. Surely these weren't Hermione's!?

He looked at them. Acid green and violent pink. No, definitely not Hermione's. But maybe Ginny …

He stooped down to study them, poking the fabric with one finger to lay it flat. Hmm, there were letters on the other side. Glancing over his shoulder to be sure he was alone, he flipped them over. His blood ran cold at the name he read there.

Bloody hell.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	10. Chapter 10 Confession

**Okay, so I lied. A much faster update than I had anticipated. **

**The first half of this is a bit difficult, I had to bring out the Kleenex to write it, but I hope the last half makes up for it. **

**Warnings: adult situations and snogging.**

**I'm not J. K. Rowling.**

**Thanks for the reviews, I hope everyone picked up on my clues and figured it out!**

**

* * *

  
**

George sat at the family table, poking half-heartedly at his food. It was turning out to be a rather odd meal, weighed down by tension and confusion. Everyone knew that Hermione and Ron had had some kind of blazing row, but no one knew why.

Except for him. And Harry, most like. The poor bastard kept glancing between his friends, looking frightened more than anything else.

George felt an awful sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he looked at his baby brother.

Ron never glanced up from his plate, attacking his food with vicious stabbing motions. A small red handprint stood out starkly on one side of his pale face.

George turned his head to watch Hermione, sitting unusually far away down by his Mum. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen, her face wan and pale, looking lost in her dark mass of hair. She ate listlessly, like the effort of lifting her fork was almost too much for her. She looked at no one, staring off into space.

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. It was supposed to be fun. They would all have a good laugh and continue on with a smile on their faces.

He shifted awkwardly in his chair, riddled with guilt. It had been a terrible idea anyway. His first prank alone and he had botched it up like a royal tit. He really was rubbish without Fred.

Hermione jumped as Ron abruptly threw down his fork with a clatter. He stood and locked eyes with her, looking furious and miserable. George would honestly not have been surprised to see bolts of electricity jump between the two. Ron turned and left, letting the back door bang shut behind him.

His Mum placed one hand gently on Hermione's arm in concern as the poor girl struggled to maintain her composure. Harry rose from his seat and made to follow Ron, but George stood quickly and stopped him with a brief shake of his head. Harry speared him with worried green eyes and nodded. He knew.

George left quietly, scanning the grounds for Ron. He spotted a flash of red heading in the direction of the pond, and followed slowly, giving Ron some time to cool down. He did not look forward to eating crow.

He stood in the shadows and watched Ron for a while, who spent some time stomping around with his hands in his pockets, pausing occasionally to kick a tree or clump of grass. After several minutes of this, he finally slumped down by the pond and began skimming stones across the water, landing them with a wet plunk more often than a graceful splash. George sighed, shoving his own hands in his pockets nervously.

He started forward, walking up to where Ron sat, throwing rocks and mumbling to himself. George felt a prick of pride. He and Fred were largely responsible for Ron's rather extensive vocabulary, after all. He looked down at the top of Ron's head, wondering where to start.

"Oi."

Ron paused mid-throw to look up at him. He seemed surprised to see him, glancing behind George like he had expected someone else.

"Oh. George. Um … did you need something?"

George shook his head and sat down beside him, ignoring the damp soaking into his trousers. Ron watched him settle in before shrugging and continuing to throw stones with a remarkable lack of skill.

George watched in silence for a few minutes before snatching a stone from Ron's hand with a snort of disgust.

"You're going about it the wrong way, little brother. It's all in the wrist, like this."

He demonstrated, throwing the rock to skip gracefully several times, barely touching the surface of the water before finally submerging without a sound. Ron leaned back on his elbows.

"Blimey." He turned and looked at George curiously. "How'd you learn that?"

George shrugged. "Fred taught me. Had a natural talent for it, he did. I'll never be as good as he was."

Ron raised his eyebrows, looking out over the still surface of the water.

"You seem good enough to me."

George's chest was tight with guilt. It was time to say something, but he just couldn't bring himself to tell Ron what he had done.

He chewed on a piece of grass, working up his courage. He decided to beat around the bush a bit.

"So what happened between you and the lovely Ms. Granger?"

Ron tensed, his shoulders growing rigid. " 'Snone of your business."

George nodded, staring at the bright red mark on the side of Ron's face. He gestured to it.

"Why'd you leave that? I know you could've healed it."

Ron shrugged, saying nothing. Then he sighed, sitting up and looking out over the water.

"I dunno. Maybe I wanted her to see it."

George nodded sagely. "That's what I thought."

Ron looked at him, obviously surprised by his insight. George hesitated, then continued.

"She looked pretty miserable."

Ron shrugged again. "Yeah, sorta." He fiddled with a rock in his hands, pulling pieces of grass off it to drop on the ground.

George watched him, bracing himself inwardly.

"I'm sorry."

Ron glanced up in surprise. "What for? S'not your fault."

George sighed shakily.

"Yeah, it is actually."

Ron just looked at him in wide eyed confusion.

George began pulling pieces of grass out of the ground, shredding them between his long fingers.

"Look, it was supposed to be a joke alright? Angelina brought me all of these knickers… the girls from school, they wrote their names in them and they gave them to Fred. I found Lavender's and I thought … you were supposed to find them in your trunk and then we'd have a laugh about it. I never thought Hermione-"

Ron dropped his stone, interrupting him angrily.

"No, you didn't think, did you? You never do. It's all a joke to you 'n Fred, always. But this isn't a joke, George. It's my bloody life! Hermione is-"

George nodded miserably. "Yeah I know, mate. And I'm really sorry. I feel like the worst kind of prat."

Ron stared at him, his mouth tight with anger. The night surrounded them thickly, every tiny noise amplified in the quiet tension.

He jerked his head away, unable to look at his older brother any longer. Even George's skin felt heavy with regret. Ron broke the silence, his voice strained.

"Why me? You've always picked on me, and I never did anything to you. D'you really hate me so much?"

George felt hot tears wander dejectedly down his face.

"No." His voice was hoarse and quiet. Ron sat facing away from him, staring at nothing.

"No, of course not. We-" He sighed in frustration. It was so hard, doing this alone. Fred would have known exactly what to say. He shook himself and continued on.

"We never hated you. You're our baby brother. We love you. I mean, Fred always loved you, and I – I still love you." It was so indescribably difficult to put everything Fred did in the past tense, but he forced himself to do it, ignoring the agony it caused.

Ron nodded jerkily, dragging his sleeve across his face. George realized with a fresh stab of pain that he was crying.

"Yeah, well you'd never know it."

George accepted the emotional gut-punch as his due. He made a decision and plunged ahead.

"We were jealous, you see. Me an' Fred."

Ron turned around in genuine surprise.

"What d'you mean, jealous? Of me?"

George nodded.

"Mum and Dad, they loved us of course, but we always felt like …"

Ron was watching him avidly now, a streak of dirt across his nose.

"Like what?"

George shrugged.

"They always treated us like we were one person. Always FredandGeorge, never one or the other. Then you came along, and you were just Ron. You didn't have to share."

Ron furrowed his brow. "Yeah I did, I never got anything new."

George shrugged. "Well neither did we. But you didn't have to share your life, your personality, your bloody identity."

Ron chewed his lip. "But what about Bill or Charlie or even Percy? You never picked on them as much as me. Well … except for Percy, but he really deserved it."

George smiled sadly, clasping his bony knees to his chest. "Bill and Charlie were bigger than us. Older, too. They just weren't competing for the same things we were, like you or Perce. And Percy was just so … different. We didn't really understand him. But you, Ron …"

Ron leaned forward, completely enthralled by this unprecedented level of disclosure.

"You were just like us, except you only had to be yourself, all the time."

He rested his chin on his knees. "I was Fred sometimes, you know. And he was me."

Ron nodded. "I remember, Gred and Forge."

George shook his head. "You don't understand. I don't mean like a prank. You don't know what it's like to really _be_ someone else. It's hard, sometimes, to remember who you are. The edges blur and you forget what makes you different."

Ron cocked his head slightly. "I never … I guess I always thought the two of you liked being 'FredandGeorge'."

George nodded. "We did, most of the time. We were just so … perfect for each other. He completed me. Fred was so much … more than a brother or a best friend. A bit like Harry is for you, I reckon, except if Harry was also a part of you, and you of him. I already know what it's like to lose a piece of yourself." He brought one hand up to touch the side of his head. "But this is … so much worse than that. I … to say that I miss him is so … It's more like, here I am, dying of thirst, right? And Fred is all the water in the world, but he's gone an' I'll never … I'll just always be dying of thirst for the rest of my life."

Now Ron just looked confused and a little worried. George had been afraid of that. No one could understand, not really. This was why he hadn't talked to anyone since …

"I wonder sometimes …" Ron looked up in surprise, George had been silent for several moments. "I wonder if, during the battle … What if I was being Fred, and he was being me? Which one of us died, then?" He looked at Ron, unaware that his eyes were gaping windows of despair. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Would you know, Ron? Which one of us was gone forever and which one was still here? If I hadn't lost the bloody ear, I mean. Does it really make any difference?"

Ron's mouth hung open as tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He nodded, swallowing convulsively.

"I'd know."

George shook his head, pressing his face to his knees and rocking slightly back and forth. Ron crawled closer to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"I'd know. You're still here, and you're still George."

George laughed, the sound sharp like breaking glass. "Do you know what I am, Ron? I'm a twinless twin. Sounds like half of a bloody terrible joke, doesn't it?"

Ron pulled him into his arms, untangling his knees and holding him close to his chest. George sobbed brokenly, his body shaking like it would come apart.

It was too much, this pain. He had lost half of his life, his identity, his heart in this bloody war. And now this gaping wound of loneliness was bleeding whatever heart he had left dry. The future opened up before him with endless years of emptiness. He honestly didn't know if he could survive it.

He gathered up fistfuls of Ron's shirt, pressing his face into his baby brother's shoulder as he gasped for breath. Ron was weeping too, his arms trembling across George's back, but holding firm. It was so different from being held by his mother. He didn't have to be strong for Ron.

Ron didn't say anything, and George was thankful for it. He didn't need platitudes or assurances. Words meant nothing before his boundless grief.

They stayed like that for a while, absorbing each other's grief and sending it back as love; clinging together as tightly as possible, until their fingers ached with the strain.

Eventually George stirred, wiping his face and blowing his nose on the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off over his head and handed it to Ron.

"Hanky?"

Ron's lips twitched like they wanted to smile as he used George's shirt to clean his face. He handed it back.

George shrugged. "I figured mine was drier." He gestured to the large wet spot down the front of Ron's shirt.

They sat in quiet stillness for a moment, just pulling themselves back together.

Finally George stood and offered a hand to Ron.

"So. In conclusion, sorry 'bout the knickers."

Ron laughed, grabbing George's hand and pulling himself up.

He immediately headed back to the house with a spring in his step. George scrambled to keep up.

"Where're you going?"

Ron looked over his shoulder, smiling slightly.

"I'm gonna go explain things to Hermione, and you're comin' with me."

…

Hermione stared at Ron as George left the attic room, shutting the door behind him quietly. He was sitting on his bed, watching her with a peculiar expression.

She crossed and uncrossed her arms a few times, searching her mind for the right words. She was simply stunned by the day's events. Their row this morning had left her devastated, but now George told them it was all a _joke_!?

She honestly didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She took a step toward Ron, the motion seeming to have an immediate effect on him as he sat up straighter and leaned forward slightly.

She blinked, opening her mouth a few times in unsuccessful attempts at speech. She shook her head and braced herself to try again.

"Well. I suppose that I owe you an apology."

Ron leaned his elbows on his splayed knees, clasping his hands together. He shook his head slightly.

"Naw, not really. You were right. I'da done the same, but prolly worse."

Hermione felt a rush of guilt for the way she had so readily condemned him. It was just that … the thought of him … it made her absolutely sick with jealousy. She wanted all of him for herself, and she couldn't bear to think that he had given such an important piece to someone else.

She looked at him, watching her warily from his deceptively casual position on the bed. He was waiting to see what she would do. He most likely thought she was a candidate for St. Mungo's after her actions that morning. She stepped even closer, standing close enough to touch.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach, feeling slightly ill.

"I'm also … I'm sorry for messing with your things. I should have asked you first. I asked Harry, you know."

Ron raised his eyebrows.

"Why'd you ask him but not me? It's really my room, anyway."

Hermione shrugged awkwardly, wishing she could sink into the floor.

"I guess I … I just wanted to see what I could learn about you from your belongings." She smiled sadly. "They're right when they say to be careful what you wish for."

Ron looked down at the floor, his hands twisting together and his shoulders tense.

"So what'd you learn? Besides that I'm a lady-killer, of course."

Hermione didn't think that she should mention the mirror.

"I learned that you are severely lacking in organizational skills."

He looked up at her, his mouth kicked up at one corner. Then he looked about the room before bringing his eyes back to hers.

"I guess it does look better, though. I'm just sorta worried that I'll never find anything again."

Hermione stared at the red handprint that stood out like a beacon on his cheek. She was overcome with guilt.

"Ron…" She stepped closer, standing between his knees and framing his jaw with her hands. His blue eyes looked up at her, still tinged with wariness and hurt. She stroked her thumb over the red mark.

"Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry!" She threw herself into his arms, wrapping hers about his shoulders and pressing her face to his neck. He tensed with alarm at first, but then she felt him melting around her, gathering her up into his lap. His hands stroked over her back.

"Don't cry, 'Mione. 'Salright." He rubbed his face in her hair and she thought she heard him inhale deeply. Was he _smelling_ her? She remembered her similar reaction to his jumper with a rush of embarrassment. What a pair they were.

She pulled back and brushed her lips gently over the mark in apology.

She forced herself to look into his eyes only to be shocked by the naked desire she saw within them.

He tightened his arms around her, bringing one large hand up to cradle her head. His eyes were fixed to her lips.

She gathered her courage and closed the distance between them, kissing him softly.

His hand clenched in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his other arm pulling her waist against him. She sighed; his lips were warm and supple beneath hers, the slight abrasion of his stubble contrasting perfectly.

Her hips were twisted awkwardly and she shifted to bend her knees at each side, straddling him. Ron's reaction was immediate. He moaned and thrust his tongue into her mouth forcefully, his hands sliding lower to knead her hips. She held herself slightly off his lap at first; nervous about being too forward, but his urging hands soon had her pressed tight against him. Excitement pooled low in her belly as she felt his hardness against her thigh. He _wanted_ her. She had believed for so long that her feelings were unrequited, but now the proof was here in front of her.

His hands inched upward until his thumbs stroked her skin just beneath the hem of her shirt. She whimpered as he caressed her, suddenly desperate to feel his skin as well. She remembered vividly the way his back had felt beneath her hands as he moved above her on the couch.

She pushed at his shoulders insistently until he lay flat across his bed, his legs hanging off one end and his head barely supported by the other. His eyes were heavy lidded as he watched her settle on top of him. She felt a thrill at his compliance. He was letting her run the show, for now.

She sat up, running her hands across his chest and down his stomach, feeling a rush of power as he clutched her thighs and tensed beneath her. She reached the hem of his shirt and slipped her hands underneath the fabric, skimming through the light trail of hair to trace his navel. His muscles clenched as he choked out her name.

She dipped her head down to capture his lips, reveling in the unique taste of him, her favorite flavor. His hands grew bolder, sliding beneath her top to explore her back, his thumbs reaching around her sides to brush across her ribs. She felt like he was branding her with his touch, leaving an indelible mark behind.

She felt wild, free from the restrictions she had always placed on herself. She gave up any pretense of propriety and pressed herself along his length, rubbing her breasts against his chest, loving how firm he felt beneath her, all angles and planes against her curves. He emanated heat like a furnace, enflaming her body.

She moaned as his hips surged beneath her, lifting her from the bed. She threw her head back as he dragged his hot mouth down her throat, his hands bunching her shirt up around her waist. She loved his hands on her, large and clumsy and slightly rough. The gentleness she felt in them contrasted so sharply with the tightly leashed power she sensed in him. He was holding back. She was determined to break his hold.

She pressed hot kisses across his jaw, allowing her tongue to lightly trace the shell of his ear as she whispered his name. He moaned helplessly, his hands clenching tight around her waist. Hmm … not quite there, yet. She dragged the edge of her teeth experimentally down his throat, letting her tongue trail behind in apology.

It was like he had been struck by lightning. Hermione abruptly found herself lying on her back, staring up at him as he loomed over her, his eyes fierce and wonderful. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving with the effort. He raked his eyes down her body, pausing at a few places before coming back up to pin her to the bed with his gaze. Suddenly it was difficult for her to breath; the air was so thick with desire.

Her earlier words came back to her with stunning clarity. 'Be careful what you wish for' indeed.

"Hermione …" His voice was low and rough, like he was in some kind of pain. They were still for a moment, just looking at each other. Then he descended on her in a fury of passion, his hands running roughly over her flesh as she pulled his hair. They were both straining to press as tightly together as possible, and Hermione resented the barrier of their clothing. She began tugging at his shirt to get it off when the door opened with a creaking of hinges.

Ron found himself tumbled to the floor as Hermione used her knees to push him off of her. She sat up quickly, running her hands uselessly over her mess of hair.

They both looked guiltily at Harry as he walked in and stopped to stare at them, his eyes wide as he took in their disheveled appearance and flushed faces.

Hermione opened her mouth, but he held up one hand to stop her.

"Don't tell me! I already think I know, and I really, really don't want to."

They all continued to look at each other, Hermione's face growing even redder. Harry backed away, his hands up protectively.

"Just … pretend like I'm not here. No! Wait, definitely act like I'm here but I didn't … I never saw anything, alright?"

She nodded, looking at Ron who had a huge grin on his bright red face. She smacked him on the shoulder.

"Oi! What's that for!?"

She stood to leave, addressing him over her shoulder.

"For being smug."

Ron followed her to the stairs, closing the door behind them and wrapping his hand around her arm.

"Wait. You're … will you be coming back? Tonight, I mean?" He whispered, looking over her head to be sure they were alone.

She nodded, avoiding his eyes as she pulled away.

He went back in the room and she walked down a few steps before she heard Harry's indignant voice.

"No, mate! I said don't tell me!!"

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	11. Chapter 11 Parcel

**Warnings: Well, I'm actually going to stop putting warnings, instead allowing the "M" rating on the fic to be a warning in itself.**

**I am of course not J.K. Rowling, and thus I own nothing of or related to Harry Potter.**

**Thank you for reading, and thanks especially to those of you who reviewed. I am always interested to hear what you have to say.**

**Another speedy update, but don't get too used to it!  
**

* * *

Ron clenched his jaw to keep silent as Hermione rode him like a well-tuned broomstick. Their bodies slid against each other rhythmically, slick with sweat from their efforts. He guided her hips with his hands as she moved on him, her eyes burning into his. She opened her mouth, but instead of crying out his name in ecstasy, she said it in clipped tones tinged with annoyance. He furrowed his brow in confusion as her face shimmered and faded like she was made of smoke. She said his name again, just as sharply.

Ron opened his eyes to find Hermione glaring at him from where he had pinned her to the bed. She rolled her eyes when he focused on her groggily.

"Finally. You're awake."

He nodded vaguely, trying to hold onto his rather nice dream in the harsh light of morning.

She huffed in exasperation, looking pointedly at the lanky leg he had thrown over her hips and the heavy arm across her shoulders.

He released her reluctantly, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Wha' time issit?" He asked, the last word lost as his mouth stretched wide in an impressive yawn.

She sat up and crossed her legs beneath her tent of a nightgown, her hands waving about like agitated birds at the ends of her wrists.

"Nearly a quarter past eight, and we're still in bed! Everyone will have noticed by now, they're all down at breakfast. I can only hope that Ginny and Harry have come up with convincing excuses for us. I tried repeatedly to wake you, but you were sleeping quite soundly, and I couldn't move to get up on my own, you weigh nearly as much as a troll, I believe, and-"

Ron groaned and lay back down, pulling a pillow over his head.

"Dragon's teeth, Hermione! What would it take to get you to stop talking!?"

She picked up her own pillow and beat him with it, adding emphasis to each word.

"Will. You. Get. Up!?"

Ron reached out blindly, grabbing the edge of her pillow and flinging it across the room, effectively disarming her. He immediately regretted the decision as she replaced the pillow with her fierce little hands, punching his head through his pillow.

"I mean it, Ronald! What if your mother comes up here to wake you!?"

Ron popped up like a piece of toast, horrified by the possibility.

"A'right, Hermione. I'm up, I'm up. Bloody harpy …"

Hermione looked back sharply as she paused in hurrying to the door.

"What was that, Ron?"

He shook his head frantically, amazed that she had heard his mumbling.

"Nothing!"

She shot him one last cutting glance before slipping out the door.

…

Harry watched in amusement as Hermione attempted to sneak into her customary chair at the dining table. Her efforts to slide below Mrs. Weasley's radar failed spectacularly.

"Hermione, I'm so glad you decided to join us after all. Is your head feeling better, dear?"

Hermione glanced at Ginny before swiftly altering her expression to convey mild illness, an expression Harry thought more accurately conveyed debilitating constipation. She even raised her hand weakly to her forehead for added effect. Harry suppressed the urge to applaud.

"Oh, yes ma'am. I'm feeling much better now."

"That's nice, dear. Do have something to eat, you look a bit pale."

Hermione nodded weakly, holding her pose for a moment before diving into her seat with obvious relief.

She carefully began to fill her plate with items Harry knew she would not be eating. He rather thought that she was reaching blindly for random dishes of food in a desperate effort to fade into the background.

He glanced at the stairs, still no sign of Ron. He was probably waiting to come down, so it wouldn't look like they had gotten up together. Harry had been highly entertained by Hermione's attempts to free herself that morning, walking out with a grin under her harshly whispered cries for help. He wondered if she planned to make good on her promise to hex him for abandoning her to her fate.

He returned to his food, resisting the compulsion to watch Ginny eat her porridge. She looked beautiful today, her vibrant hair pulled back in twin plaits to hang gracefully on each side of her head. Her face was shiny and pink, freshly scrubbed before breakfast.

He had been thinking about her even more than usual lately, so approximately every other second or so.

He just couldn't get Hermione's words out of his head. The truly annoying thing was that she might very well be correct. Maybe he was simply afraid to let Ginny love him. Maybe it wasn't about being noble and letting her live a normal life, as he had been attempting to convince himself. It really was infuriating sometimes, being best friends with the cleverest witch of their age.

Heavy footsteps clomped down the stairs sounding remarkably like an entire herd of hippogriffs. He looked up to see Ron wander into the kitchen. His sopping wet hair dripped on the floor as he bent his head forward to concentrate on fastening his shirt buttons.

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips.

"Well, it's about time! I swear, Ronald, you would sleep your whole life away if we let you. Harry was down here early to help with setting the table. Why can't you be more like him?"

Ron didn't answer as he plopped down beside Harry with an irritated glare in his direction. He immediately began to pile a massive amount of food on his plate with one hand as he ate with the other, all while ignoring his mother's continued diatribe on the values of an early start to the day. His mouth was full before his arse touched the chair.

"…isn't that right, Arthur?"

Mr. Weasley looked up from his plate in alarm, having obviously hoped not to be drawn into the rather one sided conversation.

"Oh, erm, yes. Quite right."

Mrs. Weasley nodded, apparently satisfied, before turning to admonish Ginny on her table manners.

Harry thought that was quite amusing, given the way the Weasley men were all talking with their mouths full, stuffing in as much food in as little time possible. He supposed it was a bit of a burden to be the only girl in the family. Ginny pulled a sour face before eating her porridge with exaggerated daintiness.

He determinedly looked away from the red headed siren of his dreams and casually surveyed the rest of the table. George seemed to be doing marginally better. His hair was even combed this morning. He laughed as he elbowed Charlie, waggling his eyebrows. Harry wished he could hear the joke.

Percy was watching Ron with an odd expression on his face, chewing his lip. Harry was surprised to see him indulge in the nervous habit, Percy was usually so … rigidly correct in everything he did, even his body language. He shrugged and moved on, his gaze coming back around to Hermione.

She sipped her juice, sitting low in her chair like she would quite like to be invisible. Ginny leaned over and whispered something which left her grinning and Hermione turning faintly pink.

Everyone seemed to be winding down, their plates nearly empty. Harry decided to make his move.

He stood, his chair scraping loudly on the floor. Ron immediately looked up at him, food stuffed all in one cheek so he resembled a rather lopsided chipmunk. Harry cleared his throat, attempting to get everyone's attention. Ginny and Hermione watched him dutifully, as did Percy and Mr. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley finally leaned across the table to smack Charlie on the head.

"Harry'd like to say something, so listen up, you!"

She turned her attention to Harry, smiling sweetly.

"Go right ahead, dear."

Harry suddenly felt nervous, with all eight faces staring at him expectantly. It seemed like even the clock had stopped for a moment. He put his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight.

"Well, um … I've been talking to Kingsley, I mean, erm, the Minister, and he's been planning something."

Everyone waited in silent anticipation, Hermione perched quite literally on the edge of her chair with keen interest.

"It's… well, they're calling it the Memorial Ball, and it's set for the second of June."

Everyone immediately erupted into questions, all rushing to be heard over each other.

"Is it a dance?" "But that's only a week away!" "What about security, I thought the Minister said…" "Why haven't we heard about this?" "Will there be cake?"

The last question, voiced by Ron, earned him a kick under the table from Hermione.

She looked up at him, nodding as everyone settled down.

"Go on, Harry."

"I … yes, Ron, I imagine there will be plenty of cake. As for the rest … it is a sort of dance, I suppose. Fancy dress, and all."

There was a collective groan from the men.

"It's more like … an awards ceremony of sorts. It's meant to celebrate the fall of Voldemort and to commemorate all of the …"

Harry trailed off, locking eyes with George, who looked more subdued by the moment. He swallowed before continuing, suppressing the overwhelming flood of guilt.

"All of the people we lost. It – Kingsley seems to think it's rather important, for morale and everything. He's sending out the invitations today."

Ginny stood, her face red with irritation.

"And you're just now telling us! How long have you known? You could have told us sooner, you know you can trust us. I think- well I just think that you like keeping secrets from people for no good reason!"

She turned and stormed out, her plaited hair swinging angrily behind her.

Harry sighed, looking around to see if anyone else planned on leaving in a similar fashion. They all just continued to watch him with questions bobbing in the surface of their eyes. He sighed.

"I was instructed not to tell anyone until the plans were final. I received an owl last night verifying my information. "

He looked at Ron and Hermione. "I know he'll need the three of us to show up for rehearsals, but I'm not sure who else they'll be needing." He looked down the table at Mr. Weasley, who nodded in understanding.

Hermione spoke up, her posture such that Harry almost expected to see her hand shoot up in the air like they were in a classroom.

"When are rehearsals?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know, actually. I imagine sometime this week."

Mr. Weasley clasped his hands in front of him on the table.

"And where will it be held?"

"Hogwarts, if they've cleaned it up enough."

Mr. Weasley nodded, his expression far away.

George stood up suddenly, his chair falling to the ground with a thud. Harry noticed his hands shaking before they were shoved deep in his pockets.

"I need to …" He left the room without looking at anyone, walking sedately until he hit the stairs and then Harry heard a torrent of footsteps as he ran like dementors were chasing him.

Mrs. Weasley stood slowly and walked to the sink, standing with her back to the table, her hands braced on the counter as her shoulders trembled. Harry was sure that he heard sniffling.

The backbreaking weight of guilt covered Harry like a thick blanket.

He had brought this here, this pain and loss and emptiness. They had taken him into their home and hearts and he had repaid them with heartbreak and strife.

Mr. Weasley came and squeezed Harry on the shoulder.

"Thank you for telling us, Harry."

Harry nodded numbly as Mr. Weasley stepped away to gently wrap his arms around his wife.

"C'mon, Molly."

They left quietly up the stairs.

Charlie rolled up his sleeves.

"Well, I'll let you lot off the hook and take care of the dishes."

Hermione stood briskly, pulling out her wand.

"Nonsense, I'll help you."

They began clearing the table.

Ron stuffed one last forkful in his mouth before Hermione whisked his plate away, grabbing a bun and walking over to Harry. He clapped him on the back.

"You alright, mate?"

Harry nodded vaguely, turning to leave. He raised his hand to the scar on his forehead as he walked out into the sunshine. It was funny, his scar didn't hurt anymore. Now all of the pain came from his internal scars, crisscrossing his heart over the aching void left by the death of his parents.

…

Ron watched Harry leave with some concern. He was acting a bit strangely, touching his scar like it was hurting again.

He turned and watched Hermione as she washed dishes with admirable efficiency. Her hair was barely tamed; he supposed she hadn't had much time to get ready this morning. She looked gorgeous. This time he'd be bloody sure to ask her to this ball thing before some other tosser got to her. He turned as someone cleared their throat pompously behind him.

"Could I see you in my room for a moment?"

Ron nodded, a bit mystified. Percy never let anyone in his room. Ron couldn't imagine what he could want with him. He glanced up the stairs as he followed Percy. Perhaps this was about George.

Percy ushered him in before closing and locking the door, muttering a silencing spell. Now Ron was bursting with curiosity. Maybe it was some secret Ministry stuff. Although Percy would probably go to Harry with that kind of thing.

Percy pulled out the chair at his small pristine desk, turning it to face the bed. He sat and gestured to the immaculately made up bed.

"Please, have a seat."

Ron sat down with some slight trepidation, keenly aware that he was the messiest thing in the spare but spotless little room.

Percy steepled his fingers, resting his chin on their tips. His glasses glinted in the light from his window, obscuring his eyes as he looked up at Ron.

"It has come to my attention that you are pursuing a … romantic relationship with Ms. Granger."

Ron nodded, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, what's it to you?"

He had a sinking feeling that Percy disapproved somehow and was about to subject him to a rather tedious lecture on propriety or other such rot.

Percy sighed, sitting up straighter, his back hovering away from the chair.

"I am well aware that you would much rather go over this with George, but he's … not available. Bill is off at Shell Cottage, Charlie's worthless at this sort of thing, and Father's been a bit … preoccupied." He drew his shoulders back, sitting even straighter. "So. The responsibility falls to me."

Ron was confused.

"What responsibility? What are you on about?"

Percy seemed to be bracing himself for something unpleasant, rather like he intended to repot some mandrakes.

"I feel it's safe to assume that you have a rudimentary understanding of the … mechanics of the thing. Indeed, it would be astonishing if you didn't, in this day and age. So I'll spare us both the embarrassment of an overview and go straight to the heart of the matter."

Ron began to realize with dawning horror that Percy was attempting to have a man-to-man talk with him. And not just any talk, either, _the talk_ . He groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"I – really Percy, you don't have to do this. I'm not an idiot."

"In my experience, intellect has very little to do with it."

Ron's head shot up in shock.

"In your _experience_?"

Percy nodded, looking pained.

"Indeed. I realize that you may think of me as a bit … unhuman sometimes, but I can assure you that that is not the case."

Ron nodded dumbly, feeling as if he was caught in some sort of joke. He half expected the twins to pop up from beneath the bed and shout "Gotcha!"

Percy cleared his throat.

"So. While you may understand the … process, I'm certain that you do not fully comprehend the possible … consequences of your actions. I'm sorry, Ronald, but I have to ask. Are you having sexual relations with Ms. Granger?"

Ron's eyebrows shot up in panic.

"I- 'sexual relations'!? Do you mean am I shagging her?"

Percy nodded. "Yes, I mean 'shagging', to use the vernacular."

"I-no, no of course not!"

Percy pierced him with his intelligent gaze.

"'Of course not'? or 'Not yet'?"

Ron looked down at the floor, thinking how very nice it would be to sink between the cracks.

"The second one."

Percy nodded.

"Good. Then I'm not too late."

Ron shrugged, his eyes still glued to the floor.

Percy continued.

"There's a parcel on the bed beside you. Open it."

Ron glanced at the parcel, wrapped neatly in plain brown paper and tied with string, about the size of a shoebox. He decided that he'd rather not know what was inside. He stood to leave.

"Um, thanks anyway Perce, but I've got things under control. You don't have to-"

Percy stopped him with a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"You may believe that you have things under control, Ronald, but I can tell you with some level of certainty that you are far from correct. In my experience, one simply cannot control feelings of … passion. You may feel like you are under control, but it can take very little to push you over the edge, and then you must deal with the consequences. Now please, sit down."

He pushed Ron back onto the bed and sat back down in his chair.

Ron sat stiffly. He could not recall ever being more uncomfortable than he was at this moment. If Percy didn't stop talking about his _experience_, Ron was afraid that he might lose his breakfast.

Percy looked at the parcel.

"Open it."

Ron picked it up, surprised by the weight of it. He sullenly removed the wrappings, resenting Percy's determination to put them both through such an uncomfortable conversation. He revealed an actual shoebox. He looked up at Percy.

"Go on."

Ron opened the lid, exposing an odd collection of items. A book, some parchment, and several bottles of something were neatly packed within. He looked up at Percy in question.

"Bill gave that book to me when I was about your age. I wish now that I had taken him more seriously at the time. I didn't read it, I was too embarrassed I suppose. But now … well. I took the liberty of preparing some literature of my own for you, that parchment there. It's a bit more comprehensive than the book. I was afraid you would not want to read the whole thing, so I made notes of the more pertinent spells and such for you."

Ron nodded, more than a bit befuddled. Why was Percy so concerned over this? It wasn't like he was the first Weasley boy to pursue a girl, after all. He picked up the parchment, which really was a list of spells with rather easy to follow instructions, written in Percy's precise hand.

Percy continued as Ron shuffled through the sheets of parchment.

"The bottles contain enough ingredients for a six month supply of contraceptive potion. I did not combine them myself, as they keep longer separate. I was unsure just how … pressing the matter was for you." He cleared his throat again. "I made notes for the preparation of that, as well. The potion is strictly for the female, but there are spells you can do on yourself, should the need arise."

Ron grimaced, not wanting to think about rising need while he was on Percy's bed. He stared into the box. The book was old, the cover sporting the words 'A Young Wizard's Guide to Responsible Romance' in faded block lettering. The bottles were all new and clearly labeled. He looked up at Percy.

"Do you have any questions?"

Ron shook his head, busily shoving the parchment back in the box and locating the lid. He looked back up to find Percy watching him quietly, a thoughtful expression on his face. Percy leaned back in his chair, relaxing a bit.

"I apologize if I've embarrassed you, but I know how much Hermione means to you. If something were to happen because you were unprepared, well, you would never forgive yourself. Believe me."

His eyes bore into Ron, serious and sad. Ron nodded, a bit mystified by Percy's vehemence on the subject.

"Can I go now?" He asked, already standing to leave with the box tucked under one arm.

Percy nodded, standing and reaching a hand out tentatively to pat Ron on the shoulder.

"Of course. I just – well, you know that you can always come to me, if you have any questions or if-if something were to happen, don't you? Despite my regrettable actions of the past, I will always be here for you."

Ron nodded, uncomfortable with the level of emotion in the brotherly exchange. Percy stepped back and allowed him to unlatch the door. Ron looked over his shoulder as he left, finding Percy sitting next to the torn wrappings on the bed, watching him sadly. He shut the door behind him and hurried up the stairs to his room.

Hermione stepped out on the landing, smiling up at him.

"Hello." Her eyes fell to the box under his arm. "What have you got there?"

Ron's eyes widened in alarm.

"Nothing!"

He pushed past her and rushed up to his room, stashing the box underneath his bed. He sat down and released his breath noisily.

What a bloody nightmare of a morning.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	12. Chapter 12 Perfect Percy

**With this chapter we're taking a slight detour into the private life of Percy Weasley, but I promise we'll get right back with Ron, Hermione, and George next chapter. (and maybe even Harry - I seem to remember that he was in the books.)**

**Thank you so much for the reviews, I'm so glad that y'all enjoyed it!**

**I'm still not J.K. Rowling and I own nothing Harry Potter.  
**

* * *

Percy wandered the battered streets of Diagon Alley. The gaping holes in buildings where windows used to be seemed to follow him like accusing eyes.

Everywhere he looked there was destruction and heartbreak.

People had been working hard to rebuild. Walls had been scrubbed of graffiti and Death Eater propaganda. Some of the broken in windows and smashed down doors had been boarded up or repaired.

The thin veneer of new construction did little to disguise the severity of the damage.

People were still missing, their shops abandoned. Others had been simply too disheartened to return, leaving the gutted shells and empty storefronts to crumble in disrepair.

He passed a junk shop, noticing an old toy broom propped in the corner of the only intact window display. On an unusual burst of spontaneity, he entered the shop to inquire about it.

The shopkeeper lifted his head at the magically amplified ring of the bell over the door.

He limped over to Percy, squinting through dingy spectacles perched on an impressively beak-like nose. Percy supposed that it was just as well the nose was so large, as it was the only feature visible in the fluffy white mass of hair and beard that covered every other inch of the man's face.

Percy inclined his head politely.

"Good day to you. Might I have a look at that broom you have displayed at the front?"

"Eh?" From the depths of his ancient robe, the wizard produced an enormous brass earhorn, fitting the device to his ear with a practiced motion and leaning in closer.

"Did you say summat , son?"

Percy nodded before asking again.

"YES, I SAID MAY I PLEASE HAVE A LOOK AT THE BROOM YOU HAVE DISPLAYED IN THE FRONT WINDOW?"

The shopkeeper drew his head back, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"Well, of course you can, but you don't need to shout at me!"

"I apologize."

The shopkeeper turned around. "Eh? Did you say something?"

Percy shook his head.

The wizard rummaged up front for a bit, creating a series of alarming crashing noises and one mysterious honk. He emerged holding the toy broom aloft in his gnarled fist.

"There we are. A Cloudpusher Jr. Vintage stock, this is. Circa 1985. Still works, I reckon."

Percy studied the old toy, tears pushing insistently at the back of his eyes. It was perfect.

"I'll take it."

Percy walked out into the street with his package tucked under his arm, his spirits lifted slightly by the impulsive purchase. The precise staccato of his steps slowed to a stop as he approached the reason for his excursion.

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes still stood proud like a garish bird of paradise among pigeons in the run down shopping district.

The windows were dirty but intact, surviving through a no doubt exceedingly complicated bit of magical protection left by the twins. Peeling shreds of U-No-Poo posters fluttered against the brick surface of the outer walls, which were remarkably well preserved.

Percy heaved an inner sigh of relief. He had been so concerned that there would be nothing left of the business his brothers had worked and dreamed their entire lives for. He had needed to come here before George did, to examine the realities of the situation.

Percy was well aware that it would be difficult for George to continue under the best of circumstances, and he was here to ensure that that was indeed the case. He set down his package, leaning it against the base of the brightly painted stairs leading to the entrance.

He pulled out the small quill and notepad he had tucked in his jacket and began to circle the building, busily jotting down notes and calculations.

The shutters had been torn from the windows, the hinges left hanging drunkenly. Chipped mortar and areas of smashed brick dotted the outer walls. A sizable chunk of the sign over the front entry was missing. Percy took note of every tiny detail needing attention or repair.

He halted at the side of the building, his quill paused in midair as he stared at the massive pile of jumping, twinkling, flashing, spinning junk piled there. A large handwritten sign had been fixed to the building, crowning the pile. 'We Love You, Fred' was proclaimed loudly in an offensively bright shade of orange.

He stood and tried to take in the mismatched disaster of a tribute to his brother. It was … absolutely perfect. Exactly the sort of thing that would have brought a smile to Fred's face.

Percy felt like he had been punched in the chest. His notepad dangled uselessly from his fingertips, his quill forgotten.

Fred had been a … force of nature Percy had always assumed would be around to tear down whatever pedestal he had built for himself. Fred had always been the first to condemn him for his occasionally pompous actions, but he had also been the first to forgive.

Forgiveness was something that Percy craved above all things, even above power and prestige. It was something that Fred had always possessed in abundance, like humor and charm. But now … Percy was choked with guilt, the emotion filling his throat like cotton wool.

He stepped back slowly, turning the corner and collapsing on the entry steps. He tucked his notepad back in his jacket and removed his spectacles, rubbing his face with his hands in a gesture unconsciously mimicking his father.

He was such a fool.

He had always felt cursed by an overabundance of family and had taken strides to distinguish himself as an individual. Yet now he wished for nothing more than to be surrounded by his noisy, embarrassing family, fading into a part of the Weasley whole. Only … now there was no whole to be made. They were one short at the dinner table.

"Percy? Is that … is that really you?"

He looked up in surprise, hastily donning and straightening his spectacles. For an alarming moment he wondered if he was suffering from hallucinations.

"Penny?"

He stood, buttoning his jacket and holding out his hand before he could think better of it. She looked at his hand for a moment before offering her own in a soft handshake. Percy struggled to conceal the earthshattering impact the small contact made on him.

He cleared his throat, attempting to dislodge that heavy tangled mass of guilt and grief he was slowly choking on.

"Penelope. It is … good to see you."

She clutched her handbag in front of her, drinking him in with her eyes.

Her long curly hair was put up in some kind of elaborate twist, the golden strands shining in defiance of the fog that oppressed the alley. Her lips were painted the color of peonies, drawing his attention like a Ministry announcement. She licked them nervously before speaking, sending a sharp needle of desire right through his heart.

"I'd heard … oh, I've heard such terrible things, Percy. Your brother … I'm so very sorry."

He inclined his head, clasping his hands carefully in front of him like he had been called to the office of a superior.

She continued, twisting her handbag like it was a handkerchief.

"They said that you fought against them yourself, in that horrible battle up at the school. I was afraid … I had heard that you were … I just needed to see for myself, so I went to your office. I was told you were not available."

He shook his head gently, digging his fingernails into his wrist. The tiny pinch of pain helped him keep himself composed. It was a trick he had learned while working under Thicknesse.

"No, I've been with my family."

She looked down at their feet. Percy was suddenly aware with a familiar prick of shame of his ancient scuffed loafers.

She nodded slightly.

"Yes, of course. I should have realized."

She looked back up at him and he was startled by how readily the years fell away. Suddenly he was seventeen again, young and foolish and desperate for recognition.

She offered a sad little smile.

"Well. I should probably be going. It was very nice to see you."

Percy shocked himself by reaching out to grasp her arm lightly just above her slender wrist. She looked down at his hand before dragging her gaze up to meet his eyes. Words flung themselves from his lips before he had time to think.

"Wait. Please, allow me to buy you an ice cream. We can … catch up."

She hesitated, his heart ceasing to beat for the interminable seconds it took her to respond.

"Thank you. That would be … quite pleasant."

Percy pushed back the flare of excitement he felt at her acquiescence, stooping down to retrieve his purchase before offering her his arm.

She took it, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow with effortless grace.

They walked down to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, stopping abruptly as they took in the boarded up windows and smashed remains of brightly colored café tables littering the front entrance.

Percy had forgotten for a moment, the destruction that surrounded them.

Penelope craned her neck, looking up at the battered sign hanging precariously by a single nail.

She turned to look at him.

"Well. Fancy a walk in the park, then?"

He nodded slowly, trying not to look too eager. He had often been told that he had an annoying tendency to be overenthusiastic.

They left Diagon Alley, wandering the streets among the muggles, arm in arm. Penelope turned and led them to a small park, a little patch of green garnishing the city like a dollop of whipped cream.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, Percy's mind running a mile a minute.

Penelope found a secluded bench overlooking the small pond in the center of the park and sat, crossing her ankles properly. Her hands rested serenely on the pocketbook in her lap.

Percy settled himself beside her nervously, leaving perhaps too much room between them in his efforts to convey a normal level of enthusiasm.

He looked over to find her watching him. She speared him with her serious gaze, freezing him in place.

"May I speak frankly?"

He nodded, his insides bubbling with trepidation. She looked straight ahead over the pond, pausing for a tense moment before continuing.

"There are things that I have waited … a great deal of time to say to you."

"I see."

"You never returned my letters."

"No. I-"

"I understood, of course, that you wanted to distance yourself. It was too … painful for you, I suppose."

"It was not that I no longer cared-"

She shook her head, continuing right over his whispered assertion.

"You just disappeared."

"Allow me to explain."

"There's no need. I was very conscious all along of just how … difficult you found the situation to be. I suppose a part of me was not surprised when I never heard from you again after I-"

Her voice broke and she opened her pocketbook with a distinct click, rummaging around for a handkerchief.

She pressed it to her face before taking a deep breath and continuing, her voice clear but tremulous.

"After I lost the baby. "

She looked at him for the first time since she had begun speaking, the pain in her eyes eating at his heart like acid.

Percy found himself treading water for the second time that day in an endless sea of guilt. She looked back over the pond, but Percy still felt her eyes as keenly as knives in his heart.

"Once the healers said there was nothing they could do, and you took me home, I think a part of me knew then that I would not be seeing you again for some time. "

She shook her head slightly.

"I suppose you felt like I had … Well. You never could handle failure."

Something broke inside him and Percy lunged for her hand, taking it between his and looking into her eyes. Her fingers were like ice.

"Penny, no, you mustn't think that way. I'm afraid that you have … misunderstood my intentions."

Her eyes were distant, guarded.

"Have I?"

He nodded, stroking her hand unconsciously.

"Indeed. It wasn't that I … You never failed at anything. Don't ever say that again. I don't even want you to think it. You were … perfect. It was I who failed."

She just continued to watch him warily.

"I failed you by putting you in that untenable situation. We both know that I should have made a greater effort to protect you, but I was weakened by the … intensity of my feelings for you."

Her hand jerked slightly in his grip.

"After I took you home that night, I made a decision. I could not burden you with my presence any longer. I pulled away from everything. You, my family. I decided to live exclusively for my career. It seemed … a safer choice. For everyone."

She shook her head, her lovely face crumpling like discarded parchment.

"No. You left me. Don't …"

She lifted her chin suddenly, her eyes flashing with rage.

"Don't you dare sit here and tell me that it was for my own good, Percival."

His hands tightened on hers before she could pull them away.

"Damn it, Penny! I very nearly ruined your life! You – God knows I love my mother, but you were always meant for so much more than that. I could never live with myself if I had tied you down with a brat hanging onto your apron strings."

"Maybe that was what I wanted! You never asked me, Percy. You always assume that you know what's best for everyone!"

"Well, I knew for bloody sure that you could look a great deal higher than me when it came to choosing a husband. I was destitute, Penny. How was I going to support you and our … our child?"

She shook her head like she was attempting to dislodge some nargles.

"It doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore."

"I read them. Your letters."

She refused to look at him, her shoulders shaking with quiet weeping.

"I kept every last one of them, filed by date and subfiled by subject matter. At first you wrote me every day. Then every week, then only once a month, and finally, not at all. I think … I am very much afraid that a part of me died once I stopped receiving your letters. I remember sitting at my desk one day and coming to the realization that there would never be another letter. I was … quite distraught."

Now she stared at him angrily, pulling her hands away to wipe her face roughly with the handkerchief.

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? You broke my heart, Percy. You just went on with your life like nothing had happened, but I couldn't … I just couldn't do that. I wrote to you because at first I thought that you just needed a little time to pull yourself together. And then I wrote so that you wouldn't forget me. And then one morning I woke up and realized that that was precisely what you were trying to achieve. You just wanted to forget all about me."

Percy shook his head vehemently, trying desperately to put everything he felt in his eyes.

"No. I never forgot you. Even in these past few weeks, which have been extremely … trying for my family, I have thought of you. I had my secretary verify your safety, in fact, at several points during and after the war. I told her you were a distant cousin."

Penelope shrugged helplessly.

"It is of no consequence. I am … glad that I found you today. I've been keeping this inside for so long and now…" She sighed. "Now I feel like I can breathe again."

She stuffed her handkerchief in her pocketbook and pushed up from the bench.

"I really should go."

Percy watched her walk away briskly, her heels clicking on the pavement. It seemed that every step left a mark on his heart. She turned a corner and went out of sight.

He looked down at the package beside him. A gift for his dead little brother. It was a stark reminder of the finite nature of life. He simply no longer possessed the luxury of waiting.

Making another in a series of uncharacteristically impulsive decisions that day, he grabbed it and stood, running after her like she was the snitch.

He grabbed her elbow, stopping her in the street.

She jerked her arm away, looking around them frantically.

"Please, not here."

Percy dropped his package and bent forward, leaning his hands on his knees and breathing heavily. He had not run like that since the battle.

"Wait" gasp "Please" gasp "Listen" wheeze

His lungs were preparing to march off in protest.

She watched him with her lips pressed tightly together, hesitating before nodding once, shortly.

"Alright, but not here."

She looked around, spotting an empty pet supply store. She indicated it with a tilt of her head.

"In there."

She walked away, entering the shop without once looking behind her.

Percy gathered his parcel and followed her, walking up behind where she stood perusing a display of jeweled dog collars.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

She looked at him sharply, narrowing her eyes.

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It isn't. Answer the question."

Her eyes fluttered shut as she pushed her mouth to the side. She shook her head slightly and lifted her eyes to his.

"Not at the moment… Are you?"

He shook his head.

"No. There has not been anyone for me since you."

She looked away, picking up a chain and running it through her fingers.

"I see." She dropped the chain and looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

Percy decided to take the plunge.

"There is going to be a ball, on the second of June. I would be extremely honored if you were to attend with me."

"And what if I say no?"

He shrugged.

"Then you never have to see me again. I will not pester you."

She nodded, continuing to wander the aisle like she was seriously considering the merits of various dog accoutrements.

"I suppose your family will be there."

Percy walked a pace behind her, striving not to jostle anything in the narrow aisle with his unwieldy parcel.

"Yes."

She stopped and turned to spear him with her unrelenting gaze.

"Do they know?"

Percy shook his head, gripping his parcel tightly.

"I have never told a soul."

He watched with bated breath as the ice in her gaze began to slowly thaw. She opened her handbag brusquely and withdrew a small business card with delicate gold lettering. She closed her eyes and held it pressed to her stomach for a moment before thrusting it out at him.

"I accept your invitation. You may contact me at my office. The address is on the back."

She turned and left the moment he took her card, rushing out into the busy city streets.

Percy slumped back against a display of canned food, the card held tight in his grasp. He looked down at the toy broom, crudely wrapped in brown paper. An odd sort of feeling that he had nearly forgotten began to spread like warm butter across his chest. He spent a moment examining it for classification before he realized precisely what it was.

Hope.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	13. Chapter 13 Flying

**Another fast update, but this will be the last for a little while. I'm going on vacation somewhere with questionable internet access for the next five days. I'll miss y'all!**

**I really appreciated the wonderful people who reviewed, thanks everyone!  
**

**As usual, I'm not J. K. Rowling and I don't own Harry Potter.  
**

* * *

Harry wandered aimlessly for a while, letting the slight breeze in the air blow away some of the guilt that clung to him like a flesh-eating slug.

He had turned to go back inside when his eyes were drawn to a small form swooping above the Quidditch pitch.

Ginny.

Harry's feet led him to the field before his mind could consider the repercussions. He rummaged in the dilapidated equipment shed for a moment, emerging with an ancient broom and an impressive collection of cobwebs.

He mounted the broom and shot off like a rocket, straight up into the air. His hair whipped around his face as he made a few loops on his way to the clouds.

A fantastic sort of euphoria trickled its way through his body, warming his battered soul.

He was _alive_.

He felt real and solid for the first time since the morning after the battle, bubbling with effervescent energy.

His lips curved upwards in a genuine smile, opening to shout triumphant laughter into the sky. He performed a complicated series of aerial acrobatics, wondering why he had not gotten back on a broom sooner. This was exactly what he needed.

"Harry!"

He came to an easy stop, spinning effortlessly to face Ginny as she sped toward him on her broom.

Her hair was blown straight back, fluttering wildly over her shoulders. She circled around before hovering a few feet in front of him, her expression inscrutable. He grinned at her.

"Excellent idea Ginny, the world is so much … better up here!"

She nodded, looking a bit puzzled. She glanced down at the deserted field before moving closer, stopping within arm's reach.

"Why?"

Harry furrowed his brow.

"Well, I guess it's just so peaceful and –"

"No. I mean, why have you been avoiding me."

Harry looked down at his hands gripping the broom. Some of his earlier euphoria deflated with a whimper of protest.

"Oh. Well, it's complicated."

She narrowed her eyes, her broom rising slightly as she gripped it harder with agitation.

"Try me."

Harry just looked at her, saying nothing. The wind had put a rosy flush in her cheeks. He wanted to kiss the combative expression from her face.

She sighed noisily.

"Alright then, I'll just make it easy for you, shall I?"

She began to circle him on her broom, drawing close enough to brush against his trouser leg.

"You go off without a word to anyone and sacrifice yourself like you think you're bloody Jesus or something, saving the entire bleedin' world in the process. "

She changed direction, circling him the other way.

"Then you come back here, to stay with Ron and Hermione of course, the only two people in the world you feel are _trustworthy_ enough to speak to."

Now she was spitting her words like an angry feline.

"And, unfortunately for you, I still live here. So you've got to face your ex every day at the breakfast table. Bloody awkward, isn't it?"

Harry reached out and caught the edge of her sleeve, but she wrenched away from him, flying back a few feet. Her eyes were wide with fury.

"Do you have … any idea, Harry, what it felt like to see you … "

She looked away, her breath catching painfully in her throat. Harry drew closer, but she retreated again.

"When they brought you out to show us, when Hagrid was holding you like a broken doll, I-"

She shook her head, her voice thickening with tears.

"I don't even know if there are words to describe that kind of pain."

"Ginny …"

Harry approached her cautiously, relieved when she hovered in place and allowed him to get closer.

Her head shot up to stab him with her watery gaze.

"And then you just … came back to life and saved the day. As usual. I was so … relieved isn't even the right word, really. It was like I had been given a pardon for a life sentence in Azkaban. "

Harry reached out and grabbed the end of her broom, pulling her closer.

"Ginny, please, I-"

She shook her head again, harder this time.

"And then you came back here, but you weren't … well, you're never _really_ here at all, are you? You just go off somewhere every day without a word to me, and it's … Harry, it's just killing me."

Her eyes were bright blazing embers burning holes in his heart.

"I understand now that any sort of … promises you may have made to me were said when you thought that you were going to die. I guess you never really expected to have to pursue the … understanding we had before you left. But you could at least have the decency to tell me to my face if you don't … want me anymore."

Harry pulled her broom closer before leaning forward and gathering her in his arms, holding her trembling body tight against him, their broomsticks clacking together as they hovered in the air.

He pressed his face against the top of her head, just breathing her in for a moment. Her fingers clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt as she rubbed her face into his neck, bathing him in her tears.

"Ginny … " He simply didn't know where to start.

How did one put into words the convoluted mess of emotions he had gone through since his ultimate defeat of Voldemort? How could he possibly explain everything to her?

" I've always … cared for you. Please, never doubt that. It's just that now – things aren't exactly as they seem. Everyone is celebrating my victory but it wasn't … I'm not done yet, you see. They're still out there, calling for my blood. I have enemies that would seek to hurt me through you if they knew what you … what you mean to me. I've been … holding myself apart from everyone to give them a chance to … start over, without any connection to me and my problems. I've caused your family enough pain for one lifetime already."

Ginny pushed back, searching his face with her beautiful brown eyes.

"You're serious."

Harry nodded, holding his breath as he waited for her reaction. He didn't have to wait long.

She exploded, nearly falling off her broom as she surged forward to attack him with wildly slapping hands. He raised his arms protectively in front of his face, his broom dipping and swaying as he struggled to remain aloft.

"You-you-you ridiculous git! I can't believe you! It's-everything is finally over now and you're still- Augh! I could cheerfully hex your big stupid head off right now!"

Harry ducked his big stupid head to avoid a particularly nasty slap, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process.

"Ginny –Blast it, Ginny, be still for a moment!"

He grabbed her flailing hands, yanking her up against his chest, her legs barely maintaining their grip on her broom.

His eyes flashed a warning at her as she wriggled one wrist from his grasp and pulled it back as if to strike him again.

She faltered, her hand coming down to rest on his shoulder for balance. Her lower lip trembled slightly, drawing Harry's eyes.

She was flushed pink, her freckles standing out sharply on her livid skin. Her hair was wild and wind-tousled, pieces sticking out every which way where her plaits had come undone. Harry had never seen anyone look more beautiful.

He laughed self deprecatingly, the sound falling like knives on his skin.

"You think I don't want you? Do you have any clue what I … go through every day? Watching you and not … not being able to … "

He trailed off, his eyes fixated on her pink rosebud of a mouth, placed perfectly on her face like a cherry dropped in a bowl of cream.

Tears welled in her eyes as she brought her hands up to his face, drawing him down toward her, tilting her face up to meet his.

Harry fought against himself for a moment, pausing with his nose brushing against hers, her sweet breath warm on his skin.

He shut his eyes tightly. He had to resist this, to fight harder. He had to … he shivered as she stroked her smooth hand across the back of his neck. He was … she was in danger because of him and …

She closed the distance between them, brushing her soft lips sweetly against his, igniting a fire within him that threatened to consume his soul.

Harry lost the battle with himself in stunning defeat.

He moaned deep in his throat as she pressed closer against him, opening her lips gently in invitation.

He took it, exploring the silken depths of her mouth as his hands grasped desperately on her flesh, bringing her as close as possible while they both maintained a seat on their brooms.

They pursued the passionate embrace with a sharp edge of desperation, both struggling to absorb the other. Ginny's hands stroked across his shoulders and down his back, coming back up to cradle his head, commanding him to continue.

Harry was drowning in her, his doubts and carefully constructed plans forgotten in the bliss of her arms. This was his reason for living, his impetus to carry on. She was here, and she was his.

She whimpered as he pulled back to look into her eyes, his green gaze searching for some kind of recognition of the significance of the moment.

She turned away and nuzzled her lips into his neck, nibbling on his ear as she dug her short little fingernails deep into his shoulders.

Harry lost it, dragging her off her broom entirely and settling her in his lap as he immersed himself in her, devouring her lips with burning intensity.

Her broom fell to the ground, unnoticed by the couple still entwined in the air.

The warm soft weight of her against him was almost unbearably exciting as she wiggled enticingly to find a comfortable position. She made soft little noises as he explored her with his lips and hands, every tiny sound building the fires within him.

He nearly jumped as he felt her hands against his bare chest, startled to discover that she had been busily working on his buttons while he was distracted. The contact with her skin threatened to drive him mad.

Something primitive roared to life within him as he roughly pulled her legs up around his waist, bending her back over the broomstick and fighting to suck as much of her skin in his mouth as possible, his shaking hands struggling to release the fastenings of her blouse.

She arched her back, moaning as he skimmed a hand over the bare skin of her stomach, the sound bringing his lips back up to hers.

The feeling of her bare skin against his as they pressed themselves together was overwhelming. He could feel her breasts, now contained only by her bra, yielding softly against him with each breath. He was …

A terrible sputtering sound erupted from the end of his broom, and Harry realized with a burst of horror that they were losing altitude at an alarming rate. The ancient piece of Quidditch equipment had clearly not been designed to carry two people.

He straightened quickly, fighting against the broom to pull up and slow their descent. Ginny clung to him tightly, her arms wrapped around his waist and her face pressed into his shoulder.

He let loose a stream of curses as they continued to gather speed, plummeting to the ground.

Reaching into his back pocket, he drew his wand, gathering Ginny against him with one arm as they drew closer to the unrelenting surface of the field.

Releasing the broom with his legs, he spun in midair, disapparating them both moments before they would have hit the ground.

…

Hermione looked up, drawing her wand at a sudden loud noise. She jumped down from the porch where she and Ron had been sitting in companionable silence after he had finally emerged from his room, ears burning mysteriously. He had just nodded off when something exploded behind the hedge.

Approaching the hedge warily, she halted as a series of rustling noises and harsh whispering emerged from the bushes. She took a small step forward, stumbling as Ron grabbed the back of her belt, hauling her backwards.

She opened her mouth to protest as he stepped in front of her, but he turned, pressing his hand to her lips forcefully. Once he was sure that she would remain silent, he removed his hand, pointing at her and then back at the house.

She shook her head, craning her neck to look over his shoulder as a twig snapped. He grabbed her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. Once again he pointed insistently at the house, his fierce blue eyes brooking no argument. His lips moved silently, but they were easy to read.

"Now."

She frowned but nodded reluctantly, retreating slowly back to the porch. He shook his head and pointed to the door, remaining turned half toward her and half toward the hedge until she shut the door behind her.

She ran to the nearest window, watching anxiously as Ron dropped to a crouch, his wand aimed at the ominous sounds. She bit her lip as she pried open the window, striving to remain unnoticed by both Ron and the mysterious intruder.

She leaned out the window, her wand ready to protect Ron from whatever he was facing. The familiar sense of detachment she had always experienced in battle took over, freeing her mind from her emotions.

She made some swift calculations. Judging by the whispering, there were at least two of them. The twig had snapped off to the left of the original popping sound, so they were probably spreading out to surround the house.

Ron slowly crept up on the hedge, stopping about six feet away. He seemed to be bracing himself.

Hermione held her breath as he drew back his wand, preparing to unleash a spell.

"Homenum Revelio!"

Ron leaped back as the bushes shuffled out of the way to reveal Harry and Ginny kneeling on the ground.

Ginny looked startled for a moment before jumping up and stomping toward Ron.

"And just what exactly do you think you're doing?"

Ron shook his head, backing up with a bewildered expression.

"I was just … I thought you were … hey! What were you doing hiding in the hedge? With Harry!?"

His eyebrows crashed down angrily as he stopped retreating and began advancing on his sister, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, one of them still wrapped around his wand.

Hermione scrambled out of the window, deciding that it was high time for her to intervene.

"Ron, wait."

She hopped down from the porch and grasped the back of Ron's shirt, only managing to pull him back one step before he proved as immovable as a stone wall. His chest was heaving with fury now as he looked between Harry and his sister, taking in their disheveled appearance.

Harry got up as well, clasping his arm as he hurried to stand beside Ginny.

Hermione caught her breath as she saw blood oozing slowly between his fingers. He stepped between Ron and Ginny, tilting his head back to look Ron in the eye.

Hermione admired his steady calm in the face of his significantly larger best friend's nostril-flaring rage.

Ron looked over Harry's head at Ginny. Hermione could feel his muscles tense as he realized that her shirt was misbuttoned.

He looked back down into Harry's face.

"Right. I'll see you in my room, then. Now."

Harry nodded shortly.

Ron turned around, yanking his shirt from Hermione's fingers. She made to follow him and he stopped, shoving her back with one finger in the center of her chest.

"You stay here."

He stomped into the house, leaving the door shuddering as he slammed it behind him.

Hermione clenched her own hands into fists, entirely sick of Ron telling her where to go and what to do. They would be having a chat about that, soon.

She turned back to Harry, who was holding his arm out for Ginny to examine it, her face white as parchment beneath her freckles.

Hermione gently pushed her aside to assess the damage. There was a small patch of skin missing, just above Harry's elbow. It was perfectly clean, having disappeared rather than been cut away.

She looked up into his eyes.

"You've splinched yourself."

He nodded, offering a tight smile to Ginny, who appeared beside herself with worry.

Hermione looked at Ginny, softening her voice and laying a comforting hand on the younger girl's shoulder.

"Do you have any bandages in the house?"

Ginny nodded distractedly, her wide eyes glued to Harry's wound. Hermione suppressed the urge to sigh with impatience.

"Could you fetch one for us?"

Ginny seemed to snap out of it, running into the house, the door banging shut behind her. Hermione marveled that any hinges still worked in the Burrow, what with the way the Weasley children treated doors.

Hermione pulled her little pouch out from beneath her blouse, glad that she had thought to wear it that morning. She took out the Essence of Dittany and began applying it. Once she was done she looked up to find Harry watching her.

She glanced back at the house before turning to Harry, searching his face with her eyes.

"What happened? Tell me quickly, before Ron decides he's tired of waiting for you."

Harry shrugged.

"We were … flying on the Quidditch pitch. There was a … malfunction with our brooms and I had to Apparate us. The first place I thought of was the front porch, but I guess I missed it by a bit."

Hermione stared at him with concern, chewing her lip.

"Honestly, Harry, is that the best you can come up with? I'm afraid that you'll have to do better to calm Ron down. I- well, you know how he is. Just let him shout and stomp around a bit and then everything will be good as new. You'll see."

Harry nodded distractedly, looking unconvinced as Ginny arrived with a bandage, pushing Hermione aside to apply it with admirable competence.

Harry thanked her and rolled down his sleeve over the bandage. Then, to Hermione's surprise, he leaned over to kiss Ginny softly on the forehead before heading into the house with an air of resignation.

Hermione could not help but note that he closed the door behind him with a normal level of intensity.

She turned to regard Ginny with wide eyes, breaking into a grin as she crossed her arms with mock severity.

"And just what precisely was that all about, Ginny?"

Ginny turned to look at her, her face practically glowing with happiness.

"He's back Hermione. I-oh thank Merlin, I think he's back for good!"

Hermione laughed happily as her friend grabbed her shoulders and bounced with squealing joy.

She looked up at the glowing attic window.

She prayed that Ginny was right, and that, if Harry really was back with them, then Ron wouldn't kill him.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	14. Chapter 14 Rules

**I'm back! Earlier than I expected, but since I had already written this chapter, I might as well go ahead and put it up.**

**Um... there's much cursing in this one, so cover the children's eyes. **

**I'm not J.K. Rowling and I don't own anything Harry Potter.**

**Thank you for reading, and thanks to all of you who reviewed! I was so happy to come back and read what you had to say! **

**

* * *

  
**

Ron paced the short space between his and Harry's beds, willing his blood to stop boiling long enough for him to think.

He looked at Harry's bed, resisting the urge to set the blasted thing on fire after what the git had likely been doing to his sister.

His baby sister.

He sat on his bed, his head in his hands. He had thought he was okay with this, the idea of Harry and Ginny being together. But the reality of it was proving far more difficult to accept than the theory.

There was some sort of … protective instinct or something that rose up inside him when he saw them …

He didn't even want to think about it, really. Images appeared in his mind against his will, helpless little Ginny resisting weakly as Harry had his evil way with her. Although a part of him knew that it was far more likely to have been the other way 'round.

It was just that he felt so … betrayed. He had _trusted_ Harry, and the prat had gone and messed with his sister behind his back. Although what could he have expected, really? That Harry would just walk up one day and ask his permission to shag his bloody sister?

He could just imagine that conversation.

"Fancy a bit of Quidditch Ron? Oh and, by the way, you don't mind if I give it to Ginny, do you? Thanks, mate."

Ron sighed, running his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. He was just so … pulled to pieces with all these bloody emotions.

One moment he was waking up to gut-clenching fear as he watched Hermione approaching danger like she was headed off for tea. The next he was staring at his best friend's guilty expression and Ginny's hastily fastened blouse. It was perfectly obvious what they had been doing.

He had gone from knee-weakening relief to face-punching fury in a matter of seconds.

It was all too much for his system, really. He was going to evaporate or something if things didn't let up soon.

He stood, pacing again for lack of something better to do. He looked around for a moment before he remembered that he had thrown their clock out the window when he had forgotten how to turn the blasted alarm off. The stupid thing had kept screaming until George finally went outside and exploded it to pieces.

Damn it, where was Harry? It just wasn't like him to chicken out of a confrontation.

He sat down again heavily, his ancient bedsprings creaking loudly in protest. He pulled his wand out of his pocket, knocking a few things off of one of Harry's shelves with a sharp gesture.

There. He felt a tiny bit better, now.

The door opened slowly and Harry walked in, wiping water from his hands onto the sides of his trousers. Ron really didn't want to think about why he'd had to wash them.

He looked down at his wand, twirling it between his fingers.

"Took the scenic route, did we?"

He glanced up to find Harry watching him with guarded green eyes.

He closed the door and walked to the middle of the room, facing Ron like he had been called up to the front of the classroom. He shrugged, rolling down the sleeve of one arm to match the other.

"Hermione wanted to talk to me."

Ron nodded, his fingers tightening on his wand as he tried to work out what he wanted to say.

Harry looked around, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Well, I guess I should be glad that you haven't gathered the troops, at least."

Ron looked up to find him offering a sheepish smile. Ron did not return it.

He shrugged.

"Bill's not here, Percy's been gone all day, I didn't want to bother George with this shit, and Charlie might actually kill you. So yeah, it's just me."

Harry didn't look terribly relieved, the smile fading from his face as he looked into Ron's eyes.

He rocked back on his heels, obviously waiting for Ron to begin. The trouble was, Ron couldn't think of anything to say. He could think of plenty of things to punch, but nothing to say.

After a few more moments of silence, Harry sighed, running the fingers of one hand through his hair.

"Right, well, this is the part where you tell me to keep my filthy hands off your little sister. Or something else in a similar vein, if you don't like that."

Ron shrugged.

"Naw, I like that. Let's go with that."

Harry nodded, moving to sit on his own bed across from Ron.

He wove his fingers together, staring down at them for a moment before bringing his eyes back to Ron's.

"I-look, mate, I'm in love with your sister. With Ginny. I'm not messing her about or anything. So you really don't need to worry-"

Ron scoffed loudly.

"Worry!? I don't need to worry!? Are you fucking joking?"

Harry shook his head, his gaze earnest and unwavering.

"I would never hurt her."

Ron stood, throwing his hands in the air.

"Oh, that's a laugh! You wouldn't hurt her!? You've done nothing but make her cry since the moment you bloody looked at her, mate!"

Harry looked back down at his hands.

"I know that, and I'm sorry. It was never … intentional. I just… damn it, Ron; you of all people should know that I've just had more pressing things on my mind! It's not like I could take her out for tea between finding the horcruxes and killing effing Voldemort!"

His eyes stared into Ron's, willing him to understand.

Ron was well past understanding. He was sick and tired of Harry's excuses. There was always something more _important_ for him to do, and it never seemed to matter who got shunted aside in the process.

He crossed his arms, eyeing Harry with disdain.

"Well, sorry mate, but I just don't think you're any good for her. I want you to back off and keep your fucking trousers on."

Harry's eyes were pleading now.

"I can't – I just can't do that. We're together now, me and Ginny. And I'm sorry if you don't like it, but that's the way it's going to be."

Ron's chest was tight and painful with something unpleasant clawing to get out. In a brief moment of clarity, he set his wand down on his nightstand, valiantly resisting the urge to curse his best friend.

He stood with his back to Harry for a moment, just seething in silence. He turned abruptly, venom pouring up from his throat to spill from his lips.

"No. This is my family, and you don't get to tell me what to do. I know that's not what you're used to and all, being Harry fucking Potter. I know you're used to just saying the word and the world stops to spin in whatever direction you fancy. But that's not how it works here. This is still my house, damn it! And you!"

He walked forward to push Harry roughly in the chest.

"You are going to stay the fuck away from my sister, d'you understand? If I see her crying again, I'll hex your bits off."

Harry stood, his own hands clenched into fists. His eyes were different now, burning with hurt and fury and something else that may have been disdain but Ron was reluctant to identify.

He shoved Ron suddenly, causing him to stumble back from the unexpected blow.

"So what's it like, Ron? Being such a fucking hypocrite, I mean?"

Ron stood perfectly still for a moment, literally blinded by rage. Harry's face was lost for a moment in a haze of red.

His lips barely moved as he spoke, feeling his ears burn with fury.

"What d'you mean by that, mate?"

Harry clenched his jaw, looking very much like he wanted to punch Ron in the face. Ron could sympathize with the emotion.

"You want to talk about making girls cry, Ron? What about Hermione? How many times has she cried because of you?"

Ron flinched, stepping away to rest one hand on his dresser, his emotions rising up to choke him. He cut his other hand through the air angrily.

"This isn't about Hermione."

Harry shook his head in disgust.

"You don't even know, do you? You've lost count. Well, I haven't. And I've been meaning to tell you something, mate, for a while now."

Ron just waited in silence, bracing himself for whatever had been building inside of Harry to come rushing out at him like a flood of acid.

"I have as much of a right to protect Hermione as you do for Ginny. She's … you already know that she's been a sister to me. And I don't like the way you've treated her."

Ron looked away, swallowing hard against the emotions in his throat.

"It's different now, me and Hermione, we're-"

Harry advanced on him.

"Yeah I know it's different now. And speaking of keeping your fucking trousers on, I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to tell me the truth."

His eyes were chips of green glass, cutting into Ron's skin.

"Are you shagging her?"

Ron rolled his eyes in disbelief, bringing his hands up to brace against the sides of his head, trying desperately to keep his brain from spilling out.

"Seriously? Why is everyone asking me that today?"

Harry looked confused.

"Everyone? I-just answer the bloody question, Ron."

Ron shook his head, throwing his arms out helplessly.

"No. No I'm not. Wait-are you shagging Ginny?"

Harry shook his head.

"No. But I probably will. And, judging by the way you've been pawing at Hermione like a kneazle in heat; it won't be long for you, either. I don't like it, but that's the reality of the situation. So you and me, we're going to work out some rules, alright? To protect our girls from, well, from each other, I guess."

Ron shook his head, backing away to collapse on his bed, his hands braced on his knees.

"You're mental, you are. Rules? Like – don't fucking sleep with my sister, you randy git?"

Harry nodded, his face still tense as he sat back down on his bed.

"Something like that, yeah."

Ron wrinkled his forehead.

"So what happens if we break them, then?"

Harry shrugged.

"We get to kill each other."

Ron smiled for the first time since storming up to his room, the edges of his mouth curling slowly upward in evil glee.

"Oh, well I quite like that."

…

Hermione approached Ron's closed door with some trepidation. She had watched Harry walk out of the house with a book tucked under his arm, and she had been amazed to see that there was no obvious bruising.

She pressed her ear to the door, listening for cursing or the sound of breaking objects.

Silence.

She opened the door carefully, peeking her head in to find Ron laying on his bed with his hands tucked beneath his head. He looked over at her as she shut the door.

"Hi."

She smiled hopefully.

"Hello yourself. So … how did things go with Harry?"

His shoulders rose and fell in an odd sort of shrug.

"Not exactly how I'd pictured it."

She nodded, stepping closer to the bed and folding her hands in front of her.

"Well I saw him going outside to read, so I figured that things had gone pretty well, considering."

To her surprise, Ron sat up quickly, bracing his hands on the mattress beside him.

"You mean he's already reading it!?"

She cocked her head in confusion.

"Reading what? I – what are you talking about? He just had a book, Ron, not anything dangerous."

Ron's eyebrows swooped down petulantly.

"You'd be surprised." He muttered, falling back on the bed and crossing his arms.

He gave her a sidelong glance before reaching out one long arm and tugging on the hem of her blouse.

"C'mere."

She stepped closer, stopping when her knees hit his mattress. He scooted over on the bed to make some room and looked up at her expectantly.

Hermione backed away, rubbing her arms nervously.

"Actually Ron, I came up here to speak with you."

Ron looked at her pleadingly.

"Oh no. That's never good is it? Well, whatever it is, I'm sorry. There, we're done. No need for speaking at all, really."

Hermione cracked a smile at his rapid-fire attempt at staving her off.

She drew herself up to her full less than intimidating height, assuming a serious expression.

"I'm afraid that won't do. I've been thinking-"

"Oh, there's a shock!"

She gave him a quelling glance, stopping him mid eye-roll.

"Yes, well I've been _thinking_ that-" She paused and glared at him, but he just watched her with wide-eyed innocence. "that what we really need in order to … more effectively foster our … relationship is some rules."

She jumped slightly in surprise as Rom emitted a loud groan and flopped onto his stomach, pulling his pillow over his head.

She took a step closer in concern.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm bloody spectacular."

His voice was slightly muffled by the pillow, which did nothing to absorb the sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Hermione felt doubt stab her like a knife in the ribs.

What if he wouldn't stay with her if she needed rules? In her mind she watched all of her carefully considered precepts flying out the window like an owl with an urgent letter. If it really came down to it, she would let them go. She knew in her heart that she would do anything to keep him.

"Do you have a problem with my wanting rules?"

Ron pushed down on the pillow over his head like he was attempting to smother himself before abruptly rolling over with a great sigh, throwing the pillow onto the floor.

"No."

He rubbed his hands over his face and turned his head to look at her.

"No, of course you want rules. You're Hermione. It's just that this is exactly the kind of day I've been having."

Hermione cocked her head in confusion.

"The kind of day … what do you mean by that?"

Ron sat up slowly, resting his head in his hands and running his fingers through his hair.

"I-nothing. It doesn't matter."

She watched him push something further back beneath his bed with the heel of his boot. After a moment he seemed to gather himself and looked up at her expectantly.

"Well, let's have it, then. Should I take notes or have you already made some for me?"

Hermione scowled at him, conveniently forgetting that she had scribbled out a few notes on some parchment before giving it up as a bad job and throwing them in the rubbish bin.

She folded her arms peevishly.

"That won't be necessary. I believe they are fairly simple to remember."

Ron's lips thinned at the emphasis she put on the word 'simple'. He gave a jerk of his head in her direction.

"Go on, then."

Hermione fidgeted, suddenly nervous. Then she thought of the way he had been bossing her around lately and her back straightened with a fresh infusion of righteous indignation.

"Well first off, don't tell me where to go, what to do, or how to do it. Just because you're my boyfriend does not give you the right to dictate my behavior."

Ron leaned forward, his hands jutting out at his sides in an expression of innocence.

"What are you on about? I never do that!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him before stepping forward and poking her finger into his chest menacingly, dropping her voice to a low growl.

"You stay here."

Ron rolled his eyes, his hands now flying up above his head in exasperation. Hermione kept her finger on his chest, her eyes searching his face.

"Oh, c'mon, Hermione. That doesn't count. You really didn't want to be up here with me an' Harry anyway, believe me."

Hermione shook her head, dropping her finger but remaining within arm's reach.

"And what about the rest of it? The way you made me go inside today instead of facing the danger together, as we've always done? The way you've insisted that we refrain from helping reconstruct Hogwarts since my little accident? I've simply had enough of it, Ron. I'm entirely capable of taking care of myself, and I certainly don't need you to tell me what to do."

Ron stood up suddenly, forcing her head back to look up at him. He glowered down at her, storm clouds drifting in the sky blue of his eyes. One large hand wrapped around her upper arm, holding her in a grip too gentle to hurt, but certainly too firm to break. He spoke through clenched teeth.

"An' just what am I s'posed to do, Hermione? Just step back and watch you put yourself in danger? I've done that before, but not now. Not ever again."

Hermione jerked on her arm, unsuccessfully attempting to escape his grasp.

"You're supposed to trust me to make my own decisions."

Now her teeth were clenched as well as they glared into each other's eyes. Ron was the first to break, shaking her slightly so her teeth rattled around in her head.

"No. You're too … damn it, Hermione; you're just too brave for your own good. Don't you realize what could happen to you? I-" His hand loosened on her arm, stroking her softly. "Sometimes that's all I think about, is what could happen to you. And what would I do, then? If you were … if I hadn't been able to protect you? There'd be nothing left for me, 'Mione."

His eyes bore into her, pouring out fear and sadness to cover her heart like a clinging shroud.

She assumed a brisk tone in an attempt to shatter the tension in the room.

"Nonsense. Nothing's going to happen to me. And even if something did, you'd still have Harry, and your family."

Tears welled up unexpectedly in her eyes as she thought of her own parents, wandering Australia without any knowledge of their only daughter.

Ron shook his head insistently, his own eyes growing suspiciously wet.

"No. None of it matters. Not without you, Hermione."

She started to shake her head in denial, but his hands framed her face, keeping it still as he stared down at her. His fingers trembled slightly against her skin.

"D'you remember … well of course you remember when we went to Shell Cottage after-" His voice broke and he swallowed before continuing, his voice ravaged with emotion.

She nodded, her eyes transfixed on his face.

"After what happened. And you were so … and I couldn't … "

He shook his head angrily, scrunching up his face in concentration. His eyes opened suddenly, spearing Hermione with cold determination.

"After I left … you and Harry, an' I had to stay with Bill, I did a lot of thinking."

Hermione tried to nod, but he held her head still. Her mind was reeling from the rapid change of topic, but she was fiercely interested in what he was about to say. Ron had never spoken of that time before. Her heart picked up speed, fluttering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"I was … it was the stupidest thing I've ever done. In a spectacular career of stupid things."

He shook his head and sighed, trying again.

"The worst part was not knowing where you were and what you were doing, what kind of danger you were in when I wasn't around to … look after you. I had these terrible nightmares … "

He smiled without joy, the merest stretching of his lips.

"Well, you know all about that. Anyway, I had a bit of time to think about my … priorities. And it all comes down to you. To keeping you safe, even if that means bossing you around a bit sometimes. It's not because I don't … trust you. I know bloody well that you're the smartest witch I'll ever meet, it's just that … you're _my_ witch, and it's my responsibility to protect you."

He closed his eyes, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers.

Hermione felt a burst of warmth in her chest. She was _his_ witch. She should have been irritated by his claim of possession, but she felt only joy as her heart melted like a chocolate frog in the sun. She couldn't stop herself from smiling radiantly as he continued.

"I made a vow then, that if I was ever lucky enough to find you again, that I would never let you out of my sight. That I would keep you safe, no matter what."

A single tear trailed down his cheek as he opened his eyes to look at her.

"An' I've already failed at that, a thousand times over. But I've got to keep trying, you see. There's jus' nothing else I can do."

Hermione brushed the tear from his face with her fingers, trailing them down to wrap around the nape of his neck.

"I do see. But Ron, you still need to allow me to make my own decisions. "

Ron nodded, his forehead rocking against hers.

She decided that that was likely the best she was going to get out of him.

She shivered as his hands slowly traced their way down her back to wrap around her waist, pulling her up against him. His arms locked around her like iron bars, holding her tightly to him as he buried his face in her hair.

"M'sorry. M'so sorry, 'Mione."

Hermione knew that he was not apologizing for his dictatorial behavior, but rather for his temporary abandonment. She nodded jerkily, her own arms closing around his back as she rubbed her face into his chest.

The wound in her heart that had begun to heal when he had walked back into the tent with Harry, dripping wet with freezing water and watching her with wary hope suddenly felt different. It was no longer open and seeping pain. It was finally closed and healing properly. She hadn't even realized that it had been hurting before this moment.

She raised her face, suddenly desperate to feel his lips against hers. She stretched up on her toes and kissed his bottom lip, popping his eyes open with shock. His arms loosened around her for a moment before his face swooped down to kiss her fiercely, apparently as consumed with desperate emotion as she was herself.

She balled his shirt up in her fists, yanking him down to her level as she did her best to pour her love out through her lips.

He stumbled slightly, falling to his knees before her so that she was the one leaning down to him. His face was lifted to her in naked adoration, bathing her wounded heart with salve.

She pulled back, tracing his face and shoulders with her hands, memorizing the look on his face with hungry eyes. She could put up with any amount of bossiness if it meant he would always look at her this way.

He guided her lips back to his with a soft pleading sound rumbling up from his throat. She lost herself for a moment in the exquisite texture of his mouth, the startling effect his lips appeared to have on the rest of her body, on her heart.

His rough hands started to creep beneath her top, his fingertips rubbing circles on the skin of her back. She arched, reveling in the contact. There was something so … indescribably perfect about the feeling of his skin against hers.

He started tugging on her blouse, trying to pull her down on the floor with him. She resisted, yanking herself out of her lust-induced fog as she remembered something. She stepped away, leaving him kneeling in obvious confusion.

She held out a staying hand as he moved to follow her.

"Wait."

His eyebrows crunched together as he sat back on his heels.

"Wait? You started it!"

An edge of irritation crept into his tone, putting her on the defensive. She crossed her arms tightly, adding an edge to her own voice.

"I have a few more rules to discuss with you."

Ron stared at her in gaping-mouth disbelief for a moment before flinging himself to the floor, sprawling out dramatically like he had been mortally wounded.

He brought up one forearm to cover his eyes.

"You've got to be joking."

She shook her head despite the fact that he couldn't see her.

"I'm perfectly serious."

She watched him for a few moments before he finally peeked out at her from beneath his arm.

"Aren't you going to start, then?"

She shook her head again.

"Not until you get up off the floor."

He sighed noisily and got to his feet, flopping onto his bed in exactly the same position.

"zat better?"

The toes of one of her feet began to tap ominously.

Her voice was heavy with superiority once she swallowed enough of her irritation to be able to speak.

"I have some rules regarding our more … amorous activities as well, Ron."

Ron lowered his arm and turned to stare at her, his lips kicked up at the corners.

"You mean snogging, don't you?"

Hermione's face began to burn as she nodded.

He rolled his eyes.

"Blimey, you an' Percy. Some people know all the bloody words in the dictionary and still can't just say what they mean."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Anyway. As I was saying, with perfect clarity might I add, I have some rules."

"Yeah, I've gathered that much, actually."

He shut his mouth with a snap beneath the concentrated heat of her glare. She took a deep breath and plunged onward.

"My first rule is that we keep our clothing on at all times."

Ron speared her with a knowing look and she blushed harder as she remembered that she had been the one trying to remove his shirt the other day. She cleared her throat.

"My second rule is that all … physical displays of affection must be confined to private areas."

Ron's eyebrows shot upward as he sat up eagerly, his face twisting into a smirk. Hermione felt her ears burn with Weasley-like intensity as she reviewed the less than ideal wording of her statement.

"I mean, secluded areas. Not in front of other people. Of course I didn't mean, well…"

She grew angry with his obvious glee at her discomfort. Her arms crossed so tightly that she was compressing her ribs. She cracked her next words against him like a whip.

"My final rule is that you must stop when I tell you to, or all privileges will be irreversibly revoked."

His face crumpled with hurt, the smirk melting away like it had never been. He leaned from the edge of his bed and untangled one of her arms, holding her hand tightly.

His eyes searched her face earnestly as he stroked her hand.

"Hermione, you must know that I … I would never … I mean-"

He looked down at her hand, tugging her closer before lifting his serious eyes to hers.

"I'll always stop when you want me to. Always. And if I didn't … well, you've got my permission to hex me. You might as well have the first go at it, cuz I don't know how much would be left once Harry got to me, anyway."

Hermione smiled at his jest. At least, she hoped he was jesting. What had he and Harry been talking about, precisely?

Her smile faded as he pressed his lips to the palm of her hand, the innocent kiss weaving spirals of heat throughout her body.

She spoke breathlessly.

"Do you agree? To my rules, I mean."

He nodded, kissing his way from her wrist to her elbow, pulling her closer with every caress of his lips.

She yanked his head up impatiently by his hair, mashing her lips against his forcefully until he groaned and crushed her against him.

She lost herself in his embrace, feeling secure now in the safety of their agreed-upon rules.

She was so deeply engrossed in the feel of him that she didn't even notice when he pulled out his wand and muttered a locking spell.

* * *

**Dun-dun-dun! Thanks for reviewing!**


	15. Chapter 15 Unbelievable Love

**I'm not J.K. Rowling, and Harry Potter is not mine.**

**Thanks for reading, and extra thanks to those of you who reviewed - you're awesome.  
**

* * *

Ron locked the door quietly, entirely sick of always being interrupted just when things got really interesting. He dropped his wand on the nightstand and devoted his full attention to the girl in his arms.

There was a new kind of wildness to her. She held nothing back as she pressed herself against him, nearly ripping his hair out by the roots; kissing him so hard that their teeth clicked together.

He fell back on the bed, stars bursting in his heart as she fell on top of him in a tangle of limbs. Her hair cascaded around his face, the fragrant brown locks curling around to tickle his nose. She wriggled around for a bit to find a comfortable position; her undulations making his eyes roll back in his head.

He grabbed her hips with desperate hands to keep her still for a moment, their position suddenly reminding him strongly of the dream she had interrupted that morning. He felt his ears burn with embarrassment. Thank Merlin she couldn't read his mind.

Every muscle in his body clenched as he felt the warm heat of her tongue trail slowly down his neck. He grabbed a fistful of hair and brought her mouth up to his, letting his other hand explore the soft flesh of her thigh.

Her hands were everywhere; running through his hair, kneading his shoulders, flattening against his chest, rubbing along his sides. Ron bucked his hips as he felt her tiny teeth close around his ear. She leaned back slightly and smiled down at him like a sensual angel.

Ron would not have noticed a parade of veelas in the room at that moment.

His eyes were drawn to the gaping neck of her blouse where he could just make out the fascinating shadows of curves and valleys waiting to be conquered. He licked his lips, raising his eyes to hers to find her watching him closely, the edge of her teeth tugging at her lower lip.

He rolled them easily so that she looked up at him from startled brown eyes, her hair a dark halo on his pillow. His breath caught in his throat. He had dreamed of her looking up at him exactly like this countless times over the years.

His dreams were nothing compared to the reality of her. The warm give of her flesh beneath his was overwhelmingly fantastic. The soft scent of her hair and the sweet taste of her lips far surpassed any dream he could have had. She was staggeringly real, her chest rising softly against his, her small hands moving restlessly over his back.

He kissed her reverently, enormously thankful that she was safe, and she was his. He didn't care how many rules she threw at him, as long as he could stay by her side. Remembering her rules, he cracked a smile as her hands slid beneath his shirt, rubbing along his sides firmly, like she was memorizing the feel of him.

The part of his mind that was still functioning wondered if she could be convinced to break her own rules. And just how quickly he could convince her.

His mind stopped functioning entirely as she dragged a single fingertip along his stomach at the top edge of his trousers, leaving a burning line across his skin. He moaned, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as he pushed her knees apart with his thigh, settling into the soft cradle of her hips. She gasped, bringing her legs up to twine around his like vines on a tree.

The room was suddenly stifling with the heat they were generating. Ron felt sweat trickle down the center of his back as she arched beneath him, her hands clutching the muscles of his arms. He leaned all of his weight on one elbow as he pulled back to look at her spread out beneath him like a glorious feast.

He let his other hand slide under her top, feeling her stomach flutter beneath his fingertips. He caressed her lightly; her skin was finer than any silk he had ever touched. His hand moved slowly higher until his fingertips brushed up against the bottom edge of her bra. They both froze, the harsh sound of their breathing echoing inside the room.

He cleared his throat, afraid to hear the answer but desperate to ask. She shifted her hips beneath his and he bit back a groan, gathering his faculties to try and form words.

"I-Hermione … Can I?"

She nodded jerkily, her eyes wide and fixed on his face. His hand started shaking as he traced the bottom edge of her bra, nervous excitement replacing blood in his veins.

He took a steadying breath, holding it as he brought his hand up to cup her warm flesh. An intense thrill of possession washed over him as he held her gaze, her eyelids drooping as she sighed shakily. She was perfect, small and firm and made to fit exactly in the palm of his hand.

He squeezed experimentally, encouraged as she whimpered and pressed herself into his palm. She closed her eyes, digging her hand into his hair and yanking his head down for a searing kiss as she arched into his touch. His mind grew cloudy with a fresh wave of desire as he felt the peak of her breast pebble beneath his palm.

Emboldened by her reaction, he began rubbing his hand in little circles; memorizing the feel of her, the warm give and the soft weight of her. She drove him mad, writhing beneath him as she made tiny feminine sounds, peppering his jaw with hot kisses.

He pulled his hand back slightly to brush the edge of his thumb across her nipple once, twice, three times. She moaned, digging her nails into his scalp as she dragged her mouth back to his. The little pinch of pain drove him over the edge and he sat up roughly, her legs draped wantonly over his knees, her hands clutching at his shirt to bring him back.

He started to shove her top out of the way, clawing at the fastenings like he had never encountered buttons before. Her hands clenched tight around his wrists and then fell away. He stopped abruptly as he realized that he was breaking one of her rules.

He dragged his eyes up to meet hers, his chest heaving like he had just run to Hogwarts and back. She was laying passively, her hands curled lightly at her sides as she looked up at him with melting chocolate eyes. She looked like a dream.

He opened his mouth to apologize but stopped as he realized that she wasn't upset. He shut his mouth, licking his lips and falling into her eyes. The way she was looking at him … his heart felt like it might just burst.

He knew, in that moment, that she would give him anything he wanted. If he were to ask her, she would toss aside her rules like empty sweets wrappers. He tore his eyes away, focusing on the buttons of her top as he put them back in order with fumbling hands.

She just watched him silently, questions floating on the surface of her clever eyes.

He lay down on his side, scooping her up and settling her back tightly against his chest. She lay rigidly for a moment before relaxing against him, scooting back even closer.

He reached around her body and felt for her hand, weaving their fingers together as he concentrated on slowing his breathing. She wiggled slightly and he winced. His body had hardened to the point of pain and her rounded backside moving against him was not helpful.

His other arm was trapped between them and he shifted, sticking his arm out so that her head rested on the fleshy bit near his shoulder. He pulled back his hips slightly as she wiggled again to settle against him.

They lay in silence for a while before Hermione drew a deep breath and began to speak.

"Why did you sto-"

"I love you."

They both froze, Ron shutting his eyes tightly and drawing in a horrified breath as he realized what he had just said. Bloody hell, he hadn't meant to just blurt it out like that, with no finesse or romantic preparations. He really was rubbish at this sort of thing. Emotions and such.

Bloody effing hell.

She let go of his hand and pushed away, turning on her other side to face him. He cracked his eyes open reluctantly, not wanting to see the disappointment on her face at his clumsy declaration. She deserved flowers and music and all that rubbish that girls liked from a bloke, not some bumbling fool pawing at her and then bellowing out his feelings like a dying moose.

His heart shriveled as he saw tears falling down her pink cheeks into her hair. He opened his mouth in a panic, piling more regrettable words on top of the first ones.

"I-I-I'm sorry! I didn't … I mean … shit. Please don't cry. Just … forget I said anything. It-it didn't count, alright? I'll jus' try again later, maybe I'll get it right and-"

She pressed her fingers gently against his mouth, stopping the uncontrollable flow of words. He shut his eyes, feeling his ears burn with mortification. He never got anything right. He should have known that he would bugger up something this important.

Her fingers were soft as they moved on his skin, tracing his eyelashes and smoothing across his cheek. He scrunched up his eyelids against hot tears of humiliation, turning his face to press it into his pillow, the fabric cool against his burning skin.

Hermione leaned in close, nuzzling his ear as she whispered his name until he turned to look at her.

He forgot his mortification immediately as he looked directly into her beautiful face. She was glowing like she was lit from within. His own living, breathing deluminator. Her eyes were intensely bright, burning into his with her unwavering gaze.

"I love you too." She sniffed delicately as more tears welled up in her eyes; giving them a lovely glossy coat and making them appear impossibly huge. "Ron, I-I think I always have."

Ron's head reared back in amazement.

"Wha-really? But I'm such a prat!"

Hermione laughed wetly, nodding her head.

"Yes I know. But you're _my _prat."

Ron's smile started as a tingling down in his toes which rapidly spread to every inch of his skin and culminated in an irresistible upward tugging at the corners of his mouth. He leaned in, rubbing their noses together.

"Yeah, I am that."

She hiccoughed, smiling jubilantly up into his face as he kissed her softly, the merest brush of his lips against hers.

He rolled to his back, feeling like he had been hit by a bludger. Love. It was so … momentous, so inconceivably huge, so … adult.

She climbed on top of him, nestling her head beneath his chin as she had done after so many nightmares. Only now Ron felt like he was finally waking up from his own nightmare of doubt and insecurity.

Love. Unbelievable.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. They lay together for a while, their hearts pressed so tightly together that he imagined them beating as one.

Love.

…

Percy walked along the garden path, his paper-wrapped package tucked neatly beneath his arm. He kept his footsteps light and even despite an inclination to drag. They were proving reluctant as he headed directly toward his least favorite spot in the entire world.

His little brother's grave.

He stopped a few feet away; taking in the huge bunches of multicolored flowers that covered every inch of the gravesite. Mother must have been here. Or Ginny. George hated flowers.

He stepped closer and sat beside the gravestone, ignoring the grass stains he was likely inflicting on his otherwise immaculate trousers. He set his package down beside him and criss-crossed his legs in a casual manner he had not indulged in since he was a child.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. What did one say to a ghost? Was it even appropriate for him to speak? He felt words pushing insistently at the back of his throat, fighting to be said.

"Well, Frederick. You have certainly gained all of our attention now. "

He took a shuddering breath, unconsciously running his hand along the string tying his package together. He fought against the tears clogging his throat.

"Isn't that what you always wanted? To have everyone's undivided attention?"

He paused; some deeply buried irrational part of him actually waiting for a flippant response.

He swallowed thickly, pulling the package into his lap and unwrapping it with sharp, precise movements, folding the wrappings neatly and laying them on the ground beside him before turning his attention to the toy broom.

He ran his fingers across the wooden broomstick, worn smooth by tiny hands at play. Memories assaulted him, some blurry around the edges and others incredibly sharp, stabbing directly into his grieving heart.

In his mind's eye he saw a young Fred flying around proudly on his new toy broom, the first toy he had ever gotten that had not been previously owned by his brothers. It wasn't strictly new, having been purchased used from a junk shop by their mother, but it was new to Fred, and that was more than enough cause for excitement.

Percy remembered watching Fred zoom around their father proudly, shouting for his attention as he sat hunched over some papers from work. Father had always been working.

"Look, Dad! Look at me! I'm flying, Dad! Look!"

Father had glanced up briefly with a tired smile.

"I see. Very nice, George."

Percy had watched Fred's face collapse with hurt as he stopped flying and stood with the broom clutched loosely in his little hands, the bristles dragging along the ground. He had put down his book and followed as Fred ran outside, lugging the toy broom behind him.

He had found him sitting on the top of the twins' favorite hill. It had been the steepest and the best for rolling down and getting one's clothes thoroughly ruined. Fred had sat with his knobby little knees, the skin eternally scabbed over; pulled up under his chin, idly beating a wildflower to death with the broom.

Percy had sat beside him cautiously, acutely aware of the possibility of Fred lashing out with his new toy and whacking his least favorite brother. His concerns were unfounded as Fred barely glanced at him before returning his attention to the unfortunate flower.

"What d'you want?"

Percy tried to lower his voice in order to sound older but succeeded only in creating a hoarse squeak in his vowels. He had been working on himself lately as he had realized that he would be going to Hogwarts in a few years and would have to surpass his older brothers somehow. Charlie was only a second year and was already making a name for himself.

"I saw you flying. You were doing very well, Fred."

Fred's eyebrows slammed together angrily as he gave up on the wildflower, flipping the broom around and digging clumps of grass up with the other end.

"M'not Fred. M'George."

Percy shook his head.

"No. I'm afraid you are definitely Fred."

Fred paused in stabbing the ground with his broomstick, turning his head to look at Percy curiously.

"How d'you know?"

Percy tilted his head, tapping his chin as he pretended to consider. He nodded suddenly like he had come to an important conclusion.

"Symmetry."

Fred scrunched up his face in bewilderment, the broom laying dormant in his hands.

"What's that?"

Percy leaned in closer, adjusting his spectacles as he examined Fred's face.

"It's how your features are arranged. Yours are off center, I'm afraid. George's face, however, is perfectly centered."

Fred had pulled back in horror, bringing his dirt-streaked fingers up to feel his face. He stopped abruptly and turned to poke Percy in the chest.

"Pull the other one, Perce! You dunno what you're talkin' about! Makin' up silly words. Pfft. Skymitty."

His characteristic grin had flickered across his face as he shoved Percy into the grass.

Percy blinked away tears as he looked down at the toy in his hands. Fred's broom had been broken years ago when Ron had tried to play with it. This one was just a replacement.

Too little, too late.

He leaned forward, searching fruitlessly for an empty space to tuck his useless gift.

The entire grave was literally covered with flowers. Percy pushed his spectacles further up his nose with one finger.

There was something exceedingly odd about those flowers.

He leaned in even closer to investigate. They were all so … oddly colored. Some even appeared to be patterned. And was that … _lace_ around the edges of the petals? Intriguing.

He picked up a bright blue rose that appeared to be edged with yellow lace. To his astonishment, the petals unfurled in his hand, collapsing gracefully into a small puddle of cloth.

Intriguing indeed.

He grasped the cloth, flicking it sharply like one would straighten out a handkerchief. He almost dropped it as he realized what he was holding.

Knickers.

From a girl.

He brought them closer to his face, trying to read the lettering across the front. 'Katie-'

"Pervert."

Percy jumped and dropped the knickers at the sound of George's voice, spinning around to look at him over his shoulder, adjusting his spectacles nervously.

"I-I was just … "

George grinned, bringing one hand out of his pockets to gesture at the fantastically floral grave.

"What d'you think?"

Percy cleared his throat, surreptitiously pushing the broom underneath a large bunch of flowers as he got to his feet.

"Impressive charm work."

George shrugged.

"I had a lot of knickers, and Mum kept putting lousy flowers out here. So I figured, Fred would much rather be covered in knickers than flowers, right? So I did … this."

He gestured at the grave again before tucking his hair back behind his ears, one side falling straight back over the empty space at the side of his head.

Percy nodded, clasping his hands before him as he considered George's work.

"It must have taken you a great deal of time." He knew better than to ask just how George had acquired the knickers.

George shrugged again, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

"Yeah, well. What do I need time for, anyway?"

Percy nodded silently, barely able to stand against the throbbing waves of pain crashing over him at the hollow edge to George's voice.

George looked back over his shoulder toward the house.

"Mum's calling everyone in for supper."

Percy began to head for the house, turning back when George didn't follow.

"Are you coming?"

George didn't turn around from where he stood staring at the gravestone. He shook his head slightly.

Percy resisted a sudden urge to take his little brother into his arms, fearing rejection.

He turned and walked back to the house, refusing to allow his footsteps to betray a single drop of the ocean of sorrow he was drowning in.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	16. Chapter 16 Firewhiskey

**Alright, so the Romione half of this is a bit unnecessary to the storyline, but what can I say, they're my favorite couple.**

**I don't own anything Harry Potter, and I'm still not J.K. Rowling. **

**Thanks to those of you who reviewed, I'm so glad that you liked it!  
**

* * *

Angelina dropped her copy of Quidditch Witch Monthly at the buzz of the doorbell. She stood, cinching the tie of her fuzzy blue bathrobe and padding to the door of her flat. The buzzing never ceased, digging painfully into her ears and echoing in her head. She grimaced, covering her ears with her hands.

"Alright! I'm coming, I'm coming, just please stop buzzing me!"

The doorbell never even paused.

She stalked to the door, yanking it open angrily to find George standing there with his finger on the buzzer. He grinned at her cheekily, walking into her flat without an invitation.

She stood in the open doorway for a moment before shutting the door and moving to stand over her favorite chair, where George sat casually flipping through her discarded periodical. She balled up her hands into fists, placing them firmly on her hips.

"Well, just make yourself at home, then."

George looked up at her, her heart aching at the sight of his hollow cheeks and black-rimmed eyes. He had lost so much weight, his clothing hanging on him like a scarecrow.

"Have you read this article on supportive undergarments? I'm flat against them, myself. Nothing adds excitement to sporting events quite like a bit of healthy wobble."

Angelina snatched the magazine from him, throwing it down on the coffee table. She crossed her arms as he stretched languidly, turning sideways to prop his feet on the arm of her couch.

"I don't suppose you came here just to give me your opinion on women's Quidditch wear?"

He shook his head, his eyes appearing to be busy examining the rather ordinary light fixture in the center of her ceiling.

She waited with growing impatience until he finally met her gaze, his normally light blue eyes dark and turbulent.

She sat facing him on the couch, her shoulder inches from his trainers. He watched her silently, his casual pose growing tense. He sighed, dropping his feet to the ground and dangling his hands between his splayed knees. He shook his head like a wet dog attempting to dry itself. His eyes were partially obscured by dirty hanks of red hair as he finally looked up at her.

"Have you got anything to drink?"

She nodded, standing.

"Of course, I'll just make us a pot of tea."

He groaned, rolling his eyes in disgust.

"What are we, ninety? I meant a proper drink, somethin' with teeth to it. Firewhiskey, if you've got it."

She hesitated, unsure if it was really wise to be drinking with her dead ex-boyfriend's twin, but the air of desperation about him made her turn and head to the kitchen.

She rummaged in her pantry, emerging with a nearly untouched bottle of cheap Firewhiskey. She grabbed two glasses and headed back, plunking it all down solidly on the coffee table.

He immediately grabbed the bottle, wrenching off the top and downing a few gulps before pouring a healthy dose into each glass.

She sat across from him cautiously, a little unnerved as he threw back the entire contents of one glass before quickly refilling it. She stopped him from repeating the procedure with a gentle hand on his wrist.

"Slow down, cowboy. Let a girl catch up, will you?"

He nodded, pulling his hand away abruptly just as she felt it begin trembling in her grasp. She picked up her glass and took a swallow, choking and sputtering as the liquid burned its way down her throat.

George laughed, the sound sparkling across her skin.

"Not much of a drinker, are you?"

Angelina scowled at him, willfully taking a larger swallow, managing not to choke this time but unable to control her watering eyes. Her voice croaked like an ogre with a nasty head cold.

"Just out of practice, is all."

She coughed harshly, her poor abused throat protesting its ill treatment.

George grinned evilly.

"Pixieshit. My Aunt Muriel could drink you under the table."

Angelina pulled a face at him, sipping her drink with greater caution. George's eyebrows pulled together as he took a healthy swallow.

"Actually, come to think of it, she could likely drink me under the table as well. Once she gets going, that old bat is a force to be reckoned with. Get a few bottles of sherry in her and she starts dancing on the tables. She even does the most amazing thing with her garters, charms them into dandelions and shoves them up her-"

Angelina laughed, holding up her hand.

"Stop! Please, I don't think I want to know the end of that story!"

George winked at her before tossing back the remainder of his glass, sliding it down the table for her to fill again. She leaned forward, pouring a few shots into his glass.

She looked up to find him grinning at her. He waggled his eyebrows.

"I like your bathrobe. It looks very … pettable. An' when you lean forward like that, I can practically see my way to paradise."

She glared at him, pulling back the glass she was handing him and downing it herself, immediately regretting the action as she gasped like a goldfish out of water.

He leaned back in his chair, a shuttered look coming across his eyes.

"While I have you off balance, I've a question for you."

She nodded vaguely, gulping down great quantities of air and wiping her eyes.

He opened his mouth, shut it and shook his head. He picked up the bottle, downing a bit of the fiery liquid with a muttered curse. The bottle rattled against the table as he set it down before crossing his arms, tucking his hands under tightly.

"There's going to be a ball. On … June second. "

Angelina leaned forward in concern.

"I didn't know. I-where is it?"

He looked down at his feet, his entire body rigid. His voice came out as a harsh whisper.

"Hogwarts."

She set one hand on his knee, the muscles of his thigh strung tight beneath her fingertips.

"Oh, George."

He shook his head angrily, his gaze still pinned to the carpeting.

"I have to go –it's- they're giving Ron some kind of award I think."

She nodded mutely, moving to kneel beside him, her hand stroking his leg repeatedly. She felt tears swell behind her eyes and pushed them back angrily. This wasn't the time for that.

June second … one month exactly from …

George's hand closed over hers, squeezing tightly before moving it to the arm of his chair.

"I'd stop doing that if I were you, love. You're making promises you won't want to keep."

He met her gaze; that dark and dangerous look returning to his eyes.

She felt like a mouse caught in the mesmerizing gaze of a snake, unable to look away from her own annihilation.

He turned away, leaving Angelina feeling a bit like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She had to make an effort to climb back onto the couch.

He tucked his hair behind his ears with shaking hands, sighing before turning back to her, the hair on his right side falling back into his face.

"I've come to ask you. To go with me, I mean. I won't … "

He swore, taking another swig from the bottle before setting it heavily back on the table.

He looked at her, just George again, sad and angry and a little uncertain.

"It doesn't have to be like a real date, if you don't want. I'd understand, I know I'm more than a bit … pathetic at the moment. Not exactly Witches Weekly's catch of the day, and all."

Angelina met his gaze determinedly.

"Well, I'd understand if _you_ didn't want it to be a real date. Not wanting to take Fred's leavings, I mean."

His mouth kicked up at the corners.

"Are you joking? Fred's leavings are my bread and butter!"

She blanched, leaning backwards a bit. She hadn't expected him to take her seriously.

A dull flush rose up from his neck, suffusing his pallid cheeks with color. He leaned forward suddenly, taking her hand in his, his grip surprisingly strong.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. The truth is I … I'd like it to be a proper date. If you'd be willing to go with the daftest git in history."

She nodded succinctly.

"Alright, then."

She pulled her hand away, narrowing her eyes at him menacingly as she shook one finger.

"But you're to keep your bloody hands to yourself, understand?"

He nodded with mock solemnity, his eyes twinkling like the George she used to know.

She picked up her glass and took a gulp, the potent stuff sliding down her throat with surprising ease. She looked at her glass in bewilderment.

George snickered.

"Gets a bit easier, doesn't it?"

She nodded, finishing the contents of her glass and holding it out for more.

George spoke as he refilled her glass.

"Know any drinking games?"

Angelina leaned back into the cushions, crossing her legs casually. She suppressed a smile as George's eyes fixed to the expanse of leg exposed by the opening of her robe, his ears slowly turning red.

"Just the usual. 'Gnome in the Cave', 'Twelve scheming Pixies', 'Cloak and Cap', 'Spin the Wand'."

George nodded, drinking more slowly now, the edge of desperation seeming to have been dulled.

"Ever played 'Not the Dragon's Egg'?"

She shook her head. He smiled, leaning forward to clear everything from the table but the bottle and glasses, ignoring her shout of protest as her belongings were dashed to the floor.

"Right, well here's how you play it. We have two glasses here, so we'll need another to be the egg."

He looked up at her expectantly. She rolled her eyes and went to the kitchen to fetch another glass, letting his voice wash over her as he explained the rules. She paused, leaning against the counter, the glass clutched tight in her hand.

He was doing better; she could feel it deep in the corners of her heart. She allowed herself a few tears of relief before briskly wiping her face and walking back to him with a smile fixed determinedly on her face.

…

Ron headed up to bed, the house unusually quiet after supper. George had never shown up, making his mother take to her room with worry. Dad had taken refuge in his shed. Harry and Ginny had gone for a walk – he didn't really want to think about that…

And, strangest of all, Percy and Charlie were set up in the family room in some sort of deep discussion. Percy had spread out all of these … notes and things. He even had a chart with little pins stuck in at various places laid out across an ottoman. They had been far too involved in their mysterious plans to notice Ron as he walked past.

He paused outside of Ginny's room, looking around before pressing his ear to the door. He heard rustling noises and the muted thud of carefully shutting drawers. Hermione. She was getting dressed for bed, most like.

He shut his eyes, picturing her sliding the crisp white cotton of her nightgown slowly down her silken skin, the beautiful lines of her body disappearing beneath the swathe of fabric.

Bloody Hell. He realized suddenly that he was standing on one of the most heavily trafficked landings on the Burrow's twisting stairway, fully aroused. He pulled away from the door, making a quick detour to the lavatory to take himself in hand, as it were.

An embarrassingly short time later, he opened the door to his room to find Hermione sitting on his bed, reading a book. She looked up at him with a brief smile before diving back into her book, a curling tendril of hair pressed to her lips.

Ron went to one of the crates she had organized for him, retrieving an old issue of The Cannon's Report and moving to sit across from her on Harry's bed. He pretended to read, watching her over the top of his dog-eared magazine. He could always tell when she was nearing the end of a page. Her fingers would hover gracefully at the top, perched to turn to the next as quickly as possible.

There was something very … sensual about the way she read a book.

Ron had made a study of it over the years.

She was not just idly running her eyes across the pages; it was a full-body experience for her. She tensed and relaxed in reaction to whatever she was reading, her shoulders rising and falling accordingly. If it was something really fascinating, she would pull a lock of hair out and hold it to her lips, her body leaning forward like she was trying to fall into the text. If she found something she wanted to further research, she would chew her lip as she made a note of it.

Ron may not have gotten much studying done at school, but he was an expert on the subject of Hermione.

He stood, dropping the magazine on the floor and pulling some pajama bottoms out of his dresser, returning to the bathroom to change. When he returned, Hermione was still reading, this time flipped over onto her stomach, her nightgown hitched up around her thighs as she idly swung her feet in the air.

Her bare feet. Attached to gracefully crossed bare ankles, attached to bare legs. Blimey. The rhythmic swinging motion drew his attention to her bum, the curve of which was tantalizingly revealed by the clinging folds of her nightgown.

He sat behind her, catching her swinging ankles in one hand. She looked back over her shoulder before returning to her book. He ran his hand down her calf lightly, watching her for a reaction. She ignored him. He leaned down, kissing the curve of her ankle. She giggled.

"Ron … I'm reading."

He followed the gently curving line of her leg to the back of her knee, running a fingertip across the soft skin there. He watched the back of her head, her face still turned to the book, but she was no longer reading. He could tell. He swooped down suddenly and bit the fleshy part of her calf, pressing a smile into her skin. She yelped, flipping over to look at him accusingly.

Ron tried to don a look of innocence, failing spectacularly. She sighed and rolled her eyes, conjuring a bookmark and laying her book on the nightstand. Ron tried not to laugh as she straightened the book so the corner matched up with the edge of the nightstand. She sat up, looking at him with mock irritation.

"Well? What is it that you want?"

Ron flushed as his body immediately answered her question; glad as usual that she was not adept at Legilimency.

He just looked at her silently, watching as her expression changed from indulgent annoyance to something more like … awareness. She chewed her lip, leaving him to wonder if she had found something in his face that she would have to explore later.

He leaned in, hesitating before slanting his lips across hers in a chaste kiss, reminiscent of the ones they had shared in the dizzying rush of days immediately after the battle, when they had still been reeling from the onslaught of violence and victory and death and survival. Her lips trembled against his, making him press more firmly against her, coaxing her mouth to open for him.

She complied, sending a thrill down his spine. He knew that he was the only wizard in this world to have that sort of power over Hermione Granger, and it was a heady feeling.

She scooted closer, her nightgown draping across his knees as she dug her hands into his hair, pressing herself against him. Ron's arms came around her automatically, crushing her to him for a moment before he abruptly let go, scooting all the way back to the foot of the bed.

Hermione lurched forward, looking a bit like someone who had been expecting another step in the staircase.

Ron flushed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to … start anything. It's jus' that you're so …"

He shrugged helplessly, his blush intensifying until he felt sunburned. She just nodded, looking thoroughly perplexed as she straightened her nightgown.

She eventually looked up at him, genuine irritation lighting her eyes now.

"So what did you want, then?"

Ron shrugged again, feeling stupid in the way that only Hermione could make him feel.

"I dunno."

Hermione rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and falling back against the headboard in a huff.

"Honestly."

Ron cautiously moved back up the bed to lay beside her, holding up the blanket invitingly with a hopeful look. She rolled her eyes again and scooted beneath the covers, immediately turning her back to him.

He grinned. She was so prickly. Like a lovable little cactus.

He came up behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist in a way he had never tried before in all the nights they had been sharing his bed.

Tonight was different.

Tonight he knew … that anything was possible. He had learned that from Fred and George, that anything was possible if you had enough nerve. Or in his case, a bad enough case of verbal diarrhea.

He snuggled in close, for once leaving his wand beneath his pillow as Harry came in and turned off the light. His eyes grew heavy and he was almost asleep before he felt Hermione's little hand fold into the one he had draped across her stomach. He smiled softly.

Cactus or not, she _loved_ him.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	17. Chapter 17 Bacon

**I'm not J. K rowling. I don't own even a miniscule crumb of the Harry Potter universe.**

**Just a quick little look at George and Angelina, with a tiny bit of Hermione thrown in.  
**

**More thanks to y'all for reading and especially for reviewing.  
**

* * *

George woke up to the smell of bacon.

A scent that would usually have induced mouth-watering hunger, but on this particular morning, induced only an intense wave of nausea.

He tossed aside the – purple polka dotted?- sheets and stumbled to the nearest door.

Wrenching it open, he discovered that not only was it definitely not the loo, but it was in fact a closet crammed with a dizzying assortment of frocks.

He leaned against the wall, sliding down to sit on an astoundingly uncomfortable pile of shoes, holding his aching head in his hands. The thick fog encasing his brain cleared just enough for him to realize where he was.

Fuck.

A loud crash followed by an impressively well-rounded string of curses emerged from the kitchen, which he now remembered was just down the hall.

He slowly got to his feet with an embarrassing amount of assistance from the doorframe and lurched his way out into the hallway.

He would be walking perfectly fine if the bloody floor would just be still a moment.

He tried the first door he came to, discovering a linen closet.

The next door proved to be the loo, the white porcelain interior shining beckoningly like he had just discovered a holy artifact. He stumbled in gratefully, wincing as he switched on the light and shut the door.

He did the necessary in a blind haze, only pausing as he caught his reflection while washing his hands.

He stared, stunned. Those eyes …

His own eyes were unfamiliar to him. Dark and deep and sharp with pain. They were abysmal holes in his pale face, the ashen skin stretched taught over his bones. He looked like death.

He leaned in closer. He had been studiously avoiding his reflection ever since … it happened.

He and Fred had been different in looks in one particular way. Fred's left eyebrow had been slightly higher, and George's right had done the same. So the ironic bit was that their mirror images had always looked more like the other than their actual faces.

It had been very funny, a lifetime ago.

Now it was … unbearable. To look in the mirror and see his brother looking out at him.

A morbid part of him wondered if this was what Fred looked like now, dead and buried in the ground. Was he as pale and hopeless looking? George wondered if maybe _he_ was changing to look like Fred.

Maybe he would just grow more and more corpse-like as the days went by, until he eventually disintegrated into dust.

The possibility did not alarm him. It would be nice actually, to simply disappear like that. To finally escape the razor-sharp endless pain that haunted his days and nights.

Angelina called his name, wrenching him out of his morbid imaginings. He practically ran out of the loo, fleeing his own reflection, coming to a rapid stop as he entered the kitchen.

Angelina turned around from the stove, her fuzzy blue bathrobe cinched up tight.

She raised one eyebrow, looking him up and down cheekily as she gestured with the spatula in her hand.

"Well, I see we'll be dining informally this morning."

George looked down at himself, blushing a bit as he realized that he was dressed in only his baggy plaid underpants. He lifted his eyes to hers. Dragon bollocks. Oh well, nothing to do but brazen it out, now.

He threw her a saucy grin as he settled carefully into a chair.

"Just trying to improve the scenery, darling."

She rolled her eyes, turning back to the stove to pile two plates with eggs and bacon.

She set a plate on the table in front of him and sat down heavily, gulping her coffee like she may be experiencing similar aftereffects of their evening. George gave her a sideways glance.

Their evening.

He shut his eyes, desperately trying to sweep away the fog in his mind. He knew he had asked her to the stupid ball, but after that? Completely blank. He hoped he hadn't made a total arse of himself, but that possibility seemed pretty slim. He slumped low in his chair, eyeing his plate with trepidation.

Angela laughed, stopping suddenly and grabbing her head with a moan.

George looked at her curiously. She shot him a little smile.

"You're looking a bit green. Here, have some toast at least." She slid a plate he had not noticed on the table to him. "I'll get you some coffee."

She stood with great care and poured him a cup, sitting back down with obvious relief. Yep, she was definitely feeling it.

He drank his coffee without bothering with cream or sugar, the hot liquid seeming to wash away a few of the cobwebs. He plunked down his cup and grabbed a wedge of toast, nibbling it apprehensively.

He looked up to find her watching him, her eyebrows pulled together and her teeth pulling at her lip. He looked back down quickly, pushing the eggs and bacon further from him as he carefully consumed his coffee and dry toast.

He finished his toast, looking up again to find her tucking in with a fervor that would have done Ron proud. Her eggs had disappeared and her bacon was swiftly following.

He grimaced.

"How do you do that? Isn't your stomach pickled from all the Firewhiskey?"

She shook her head, wincing and grabbing it before shooting him an angry glance, like the unwise gesture had been entirely his fault.

"This is my cure for a hangover. Eggs, bacon, and toast. Wash it all down with coffee and I'm right as rain."

He nodded skeptically, grabbing his head as his brain sloshed around. He finally just plopped his head on the table, not caring a kneazle's arse if his hair got eggs in it.

Angelina slumped back in her chair, cradling her coffee, her plate licked clean.

"S'all your fault, you know."

George didn't respond.

"I found the bottle this morning. Nearly empty. We should both be dead by now, or something, with that much liquor in our systems."

George mumbled into the tablecloth.

"I've done worse."

She rolled her eyes.

" 'Course you have. You and … You were never happy to stop at one drink, always had to show everyone how 'game' you were. I'm sure the other little boys were very impressed."

George's lips curled upward slightly.

"And girls."

Angelina blew out a disgusted breath.

"Oh, I'm sure. Nothing more impressive to a girl than a couple of drunken twits."

George rolled his head on the table in a bizarre kind of nod.

" 'zactly."

He lifted his eyes to her face, to find her chewing her lip again.

"George … how much do you remember of last night?"

He shrugged awkwardly, his head remaining on the table. It was far too heavy for his neck to support.

"I remember coming here to ask you … and then we played some drinking game … and then … nothing."

She nodded very carefully, avoiding his eyes as she drained her coffee.

He rolled his head in her direction.

"You?"

She shrugged.

"The same."

George shut his eyes, the possibilities running through his brain like demented children. A sudden thought occurred to him.

"Where're my trousers?"

She looked at him over the rim of her cup.

"I think I saw them under the coffee table. M'not sure."

Now George was the one chewing his lip. Yep, the possibility of him not having made an arse of himself was slim indeed. He rolled his eyes up to meet hers. She was still watching him, a guarded look in her brown eyes.

"And where were you? When you woke up, I mean?"

She shrugged, getting up to pour another cup of coffee, speaking with her back to him.

"In my bed."

He swallowed thickly. Things were not looking good for him at all. Surely he hadn't …

"An' what were you wearing?"

He shut his eyes, praying that she would say flannel pajamas or an iron chastity belt or something. He slitted his eyes open to watch her.

She froze, her hand still on the handle of the coffeepot.

"A shirt."

"Mm. Sorry I missed it then."

She sent him a stern look, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips as she sat back down.

He sighed, sitting up slowly.

"Angelina, I … well, we didn't … I mean … did we?"

She looked away.

"Of course not."

He nodded slowly.

"But … you don't really remember, do you?"

She shook her head slightly, staring down into her coffee. She squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear leaking from the corner.

George's entire body clenched with remorse. He grabbed her hand, unwrapping it from around her coffee cup and holding it tightly.

"M'sorry, Ange. I'm sure you're right. We … well, we wouldn't, would we? I mean, you're still Fred's girl, aren't you?"

She pulled her hand away, glaring at him furiously. George was entirely confused, wondering for a moment if this was what Ron felt like when dealing with women.

"M'not Fred's girl. Haven't been for ages."

George nodded.

"Fair enough."

She continued, playing with the handle of her coffee cup.

"There've been other boys, since Fred I mean. It's not like I … I haven't been pining away for him in a bloody convent or anything."

George nodded again, not sure what else to do. The thought of her with other boys … it raised an alarming tide of … something in him. Something dark and caustic. Something entirely unfamiliar. Maybe he was just upset on Fred's behalf. Yes, surely that was it.

She took a gulp of coffee, finally looking at him.

"Bet you think I'm a slag, now."

George met her eyes steadily.

"No."

She looked back down in her coffee.

"So anyway, if we didn't … it wasn't because of Fred."

George nodded vaguely.

Wait.

She had said "if", hadn't she?

Fuck.

…

Angelina woke up like a cracking egg, her brain spilling out all over her lilac spotted sheets.

Merlin, it was offensively bright this morning. She put one hand over her eyes, groaning loudly.

She nearly jumped out of her skin as someone shifted beside her in the bed. She rolled her head with great care to investigate.

A shock of red hair lay across her pillow, falling against a pale face. For a brief and painful moment she believed it was Fred.

Her heart broke into crumbling pieces as she blinked away the cobwebs of her drunken slumber, her eyes staring at the naked truth.

Naked.

Merlin! He was naked! Or at least, what she could see of him, his milky shoulders rising above her sheets.

She lifted the sheet, peeking under with great trepidation. Not naked, then. She let out a relieved breath. Things were looking up.

She got out of bed, walking very carefully to the loo. She stopped abruptly as she caught her reflection.

Oh no.

She was wearing his shirt. George's shirt, hanging midway down her thighs.

So, things were not so much looking up, then.

She shifted. Well, at least she still had her knickers on. That had to count for something, right?

She grabbed a few bottles from her potions cabinet and headed to the kitchen to mix up a batch of sober-up.

She poured the noxious concoction in with the coffee, leaving it all to brew together.

She picked her way through the den, stepping over discarded glasses – why had they needed so many? – and bits of clothing.

There. Her bathrobe.

Draped over the back of the couch like a flag of surrender.

Fuck.

She grabbed it, looking around before ripping his shirt off like it was made of nettles, securing her bathrobe tightly around her waist.

Well, his trousers were under the table, and there were his socks by the fireplace. She sat down heavily, letting her head fall back against the couch.

She crinkled up her forehead in bafflement.

There was … one shoe, hanging by the laces from her ceiling fixture.

She shut her eyes, searching desperately for some wisp of memory.

He had been … overwrought last night. They were having a ruddy ball on the first anniversary of Fred's death. Held at the very castle where he had died. George was not looking forward to the occasion. And he had asked … her. To be his date.

And then he had taught her a rather complicated drinking game involving memory and a good bit of magic.

He and Fred had always been very clever with their magic.

And then they had started singing … something about a witch named McGratch. And then … nothing.

It was like her mind had simply drawn a curtain across the rest of the evening.

She stood and walked back to the kitchen, carefully going about preparing breakfast.

Well, she would just assume that nothing had happened. They were just friends, after all. She was certain that they would never …

Well. Nearly certain, anyway.

Fuck.

…

Hermione finished her breakfast with record speed.

She and Ginny were meeting Luna today to go shopping. For dress robes.

Ginny had woken her up this morning with the plan, sitting on the bed despite Ron's embarrassed protests. Harry had asked her last night, to be his date. And she already knew what she wanted to wear, and what she thought Hermione should wear, as well.

Hermione was perfectly happy to be swept along the tide of the younger witch's enthusiasm.

Ron hadn't asked her yet, but she was pretty confident that he would. Especially after what had happened yesterday.

She blushed furiously as she remembered the way his hand had felt on her, the look in his eyes, boring right into her soul. And then his words …

The most beautiful words she had ever heard.

She simply couldn't stop smiling today.

The sun was brighter, the air more sweet. The future was suddenly a glorious concept, something to look forward to.

Ginny grabbed her plate, taking it along with hers to wash in the kitchen. She stopped and kissed Mrs. Weasley on the cheek before taking Hermione by the elbow and hauling her outside, chattering excitedly about fabrics and necklines.

Hermione nodded without hearing a word. She already felt like a girl in a fairytale, the fancy dress robes were simply icing on the cake.

Three words kept spinning around her head, leaving her feeling dizzy and breathless in the most wonderful sort of way.

He _loved_ her.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	18. Chapter 18 Unexpected Constellations

**I don't own anything Harry Potter, and I'm not J.K. Rowling.**

**Thank you to the awesome people who reviewed - you always make my day!**

**This is a short one, but it will be continued later.  
**

* * *

Ron scraped the last bits of food from his plate, shoving it all in his mouth as he gazed after Ginny and Hermione.

Shopping. Pfft. Girls.

They got so excited over what was really no more than a few bits of cloth. It was all rather mental, if you asked him.

He turned as Harry placed one hand on his shoulder.

"Ready to go?"

Ron drew his eyebrows up.

"Where?"

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Honestly, Ron. We just talked about it over breakfast."

Ron shrugged.

"You know I can't be bothered listening to people when there's food in front of me."

Harry ran a hand through his hair.

"Right. Well, we're going to be measured today."

Ron waited, but apparently that was all Harry intended to say. He finally leaned back, crossing his arms casually.

"For what?"

"Dress robes."

Ron sat up straight, panic skipping down his spine.

"Oh, well I uh … I can't go because … because … you see …"

He looked around frantically for an excuse, any excuse to get him out of the shopping expedition. His spirits lifted as he saw George drag himself in the back door, looking rather the worse for wear.

"George! Yeah, that's it. I promised George I'd stay with him today!"

George glanced up at the mention of his name, deep purple rings circling his eyes. He didn't look like he was having a very good morning.

He walked over and sat beside Ron.

"What's this? Taking my name in vain, little brother?"

Ron tried to convey his desperation with his eyes, hoping against hope that George would pick up on it and save him.

"Yeah, I was just telling Harry about how, uh, you and I were going to spend the day together."

George's eyebrows rose slightly as he plopped his elbow down on the table, leaning his chin on his fist.

"Were you, now?"

Harry's eyes flickered between them before finally settling on Ron with disconcerting accuracy.

"You're bamming me."

Ron tried his best to look innocent.

"No! Honest, Harry, I simply can't go today. Because of … um … George."

Harry's eyes narrowed.

"Right. And my Aunt Petunia dances flamenco."

George snickered, causing Ron to turn and glare at him.

"He's got you, Ronniekins. Best just to man up to it and go do whatever it is he wants."

Ron's lower lip protruded as he flopped back in his chair.

"But I don't _want_ to go! It's gonna be borin' an' stupid an' bloody uncomfortable."

George grinned.

"Oh well, then you _definitely_ have to go. Sounds like a right laugh, Harry, torturing Ron. Give 'im hell for me, will you?"

A slow smile spread across Harry's face.

"Actually, George, you should probably come as well. You'll be needing dress robes, too."

George looked down at the table, his posture and the air around them growing suddenly … intense. The moment passed quickly and he looked back up at Harry with a trademark evil grin pulling at his lips.

"I suppose I will, at that. You'll need me around for fashion advice anyway. Hate to see what you lot would come up with for yourselves. We all know Ron's predilection for ruffles."

Ron sent him an angry glare.

He was going, then.

Bollocks.

…

Hermione stumbled under the considerable weight of the gowns Ginny continued to pile in her arms.

The ginger witch turned around, holding up a sheer salmon pink confection of a gown.

"…And this would be fabulous on you!"

Hermione struggled to see it over her pile of gowns Ginny had deemed to have equal potential as fabulous evening wear.

"I really don't think-"

Her last word was muffled by the fluttering chiffon skirt that fell over her head.

Luna breezed by, holding only a few gowns of her own, each one more outlandish than the last. Why would they even make a formal gown printed with unicorns? Hermione watched her carefully consider a rack of gowns before picking out the only pickle-green one in the entire store.

She spat out the cloying chiffon, leaning back against the wall in exhaustion.

"Honestly, Ginny. This is more than enough for now. Perhaps we should try them on?"

Ginny looked longingly at the racks they had yet to explore before nodding reluctantly.

"Alright. You go first. You must promise to come out and show us though, so me and Luna can decide what looks the best."

Hermione nodded, gratefully unloading her burden on the sales witch. She didn't really think that she would be needing Luna's fashion advice, but she certainly wasn't going to hurt anyone's feelings by voicing the sentiment aloud.

She went into the changing stall, selecting a sedate coffee brown frock in matte satin to start with. It was modest and simple, two things she was looking for. The neckline was high and the skirt fell slightly away from her body. The only adornment was a thin ivory ribbon that tied around her waist. She looked in the mirror, smiling slightly. It was perfect.

She drew back the curtains, revealing herself to Ginny and Luna.

Ginny's face scrunched up in distaste.

"Oh that's awful! Don't you think, Luna?"

Luna cocked her head to the side.

"Perfectly dreadful."

Her cheerful tone jarred disconcertingly with her words.

Ginny shooed her back into the stall.

"Give us something with a bit of colour!"

Hermione bit her lip, surveying the intimidating array of gowns. Colour. She picked up a powder blue gown. This one was more ornate, the skirt falling in fluttering tiers from the high waist. She stepped out again.

Ginny bit her lip.

"It's okay, but we can do better."

Luna nodded, not even looking up from where she was busily arranging price tags to form a little house.

Hermione went through another half dozen gowns, with reactions varying from grudging approval to reports of nausea.

Starting to get rather fed up with the entire process, she flipped though all of the gowns herself, picking out three that she thought would please her critics.

The first was the salmon chiffon, which Ginny deemed "Too precious." , apparently a negative in an evening gown.

The next was a mint green dupioni silk, the fabric shimmering with every movement. Luna's response was "Oh, how lovely, you look just like pea soup!" Hermione did not take it as the compliment she had evidently intended it to be.

She threw the final gown over her head, opening the curtains reluctantly.

Ginny sucked in her breath, standing to walk around Hermione slowly. Luna looked her up and down, a small smile playing at her lips. She opened her mouth and Hermione braced herself, expecting another unflattering comparison to food.

"You're gorgeous."

Ginny nodded excitedly, grabbing Hermione's arm and jumping in place.

"Yes! Yes, it's perfect! Oh, Hermione! Ron's going to swallow his tongue, just see if he doesn't!"

Hermione smiled shyly, turning to consider herself in the mirror.

"You don't think it's too much?"

Ginny and Luna both shook their heads frantically.

After a few more hours, every girl had chosen her gown and they made an appointment to return for alterations.

They strolled down to a little café where Hermione sat gratefully. Shopping with Ginny could be a rather grueling experience. She was absolutely knackered.

Luna stirred her tea, looking at Ginny.

"So you're going with Harry, then? I always thought the two of you made a lovely couple. Contrasts …"

She picked up a teacake, nibbling around the center until she had formed a star, centering the decorative remains on her plate. She raised luminous eyes to Hermione.

"And I suppose that Ronald has finally admitted that he's completely mad for you."

Hermione nodded, feeling her face turn pink.

"I –yes, after a fashion."

She looked down into her tea.

"He hasn't asked me to the ball, though."

Ginny's lips split into a grin.

"Oh, he will."

Hermione sent her a grateful smile. Ginny's confidence had always been contagious. She shifted her focus back to Luna.

"Do you know who you'll be going with?"

Luna nodded without answering, her eyes floating somewhere above Hermione's left shoulder. She smiled.

"The gillywobs are thick this afternoon."

Hermione looked over her shoulder, unsurprised to find nothing there. She decided not to ask what a gillywob was, instead resolving to look it up later.

Ginny leaned forward.

"So who is it, Luna? Don't keep us in suspense!"

Luna slowly turned her head to look at her.

"Neville's asked me."

Hermione's "Oh, that's nice." was overridden by Ginny's rather rude exclamation of "Why?"

Luna looked up at them steadily, her expression serene.

"I expect it's because we've been sleeping together."

A shocked silence fell over the table like a sledgehammer.

Hermione opened her mouth a few times in unsuccessful attempts at speech, resembling a kissing fish.

Ginny beat her to it.

"You mean Neville Longbottom? _Our_ Neville?"

Luna gazed at her in silence for a tense moment, her eyes hypnotically direct.

"He isn't your Neville."

Ginny blushed, leaning backwards a bit.

"No, of course not, I didn't mean …"

Luna nodded.

"So that's who I'm going with." She picked up the serving tray, offering it around. "Cakes, anyone?"

Hermione took one with a muttered "thank you.", unsure what else to do.

Luna and Neville. Together. Not just that, but _together_ together. It was a difficult concept to wrap her head around.

Really. Even she and Ron weren't … doing … _that_, yet.

Ginny leaned forward, a military glint in her eye that assured Hermione she wouldn't stop until she got what she was after.

"How long?"

Luna looked at her curiously, as if she had no idea what she was asking.

Ginny looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice.

"How long have you been _sleeping_ with him?"

Luna drew shapes on the tablecloth with her fingers, answering distractedly.

"Since shortly after the battle up at school."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Shortly after. That could mean anything, from 'immediately following' to 'a week later'.

She had been working with the both of them for weeks after the battle, reconstructing the school, and nothing had seemed out of the ordinary. They had given no clue that anything had changed in their relationship. It seemed a bit … odd, now that she thought about it.

She chewed her lip, watching Luna arrange her nibbled cakes into a constellation on her plate.

She cleared her throat.

"Well. I hadn't realized that the two of you were … seeing each other."

Luna looked up in surprise.

"We're not."

Hermione's eyebrows collided in confusion.

"Oh. I see." She looked at Ginny, who was wearing a similar expression of befuddlement. She turned back to Luna.

"No, actually I don't see. Luna, what's going on, exactly, between you and Neville?"

Luna's eyes were clear and guileless.

"I've just told you. We're sleeping together."

Hermione tried to look past the unclouded surface of Luna's eyes for a clue as to what was going on.

"But you aren't dating?"

Luna shook her head, picking up a star from her cake-constellation and chewing on it.

Hermione looked at Ginny. Ginny shrugged helplessly. They both looked back at Luna, Hermione speaking hesitantly.

"And you aren't … you're not upset by that?"

Luna shook her head, rearranging her cake-stars.

Ginny leaned back in her chair, a cheeky grin spreading across her face.

"Well, good for you, Luna. If the boys can play around like that, then why can't we? I think it's very … modern of you."

Luna nodded distractedly, nudging a star into place.

Hermione looked down at Luna's plate. She had actually formed the constellation Lepus, the Hare.

She leaned back in her chair, her head reeling from the bizarre information about two of her closest friends. She felt a bit bad about it, but the truth was that she didn't entirely approve. She could only hope that she didn't run into Neville anytime soon.

Merlin knew what she'd say to him.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	19. Chapter 19 Light

**I'm not J.K. Rowling, and I don't own anything Harry Potter.**

**This is mostly a look at the Luna / Neville side of things, but there is a Romione chapter at the end.**

**I would also remind you that this fic is rated M for a reason.**

**Thanks for the reviews, and thank you for reading!  
**

* * *

Luna ambled up the twisting walk to her home, skirting around piles of debris.

Most people would find it upsetting to pick their way through the wreckage of their personal belongings, but Luna found it best to hold herself aloof. It wasn't one's things that mattered anyway. It was the people one surrounded themselves with, their loved ones.

Luna believed firmly that she would see her mother again; she had heard her beyond the veil in the Department of Mysteries. She may have passed on from this life, but she was still out there somewhere, waiting for Luna.

The bit she was having trouble with was her father. Faith was a wonderful and powerful thing, and Luna tried her best to keep it a part of her daily life, but she was having difficulty keeping her faith that she would see her father again.

They had taken him, the Death Eaters, just as they had taken her. Only, she didn't know where they were keeping him. The Aurors were doing their best, but there were so many missing. Her father was just one of scads of people they were searching for.

She knew he must feel frightened, and alone, just as she had in that cold dark basement. She sent him her thoughts, every hour of every day, on the tiny chance that he would feel her presence in the atmosphere and take some small comfort in the fact that she was missing him.

Missing. It was such a strange word. Her father was missing. She was missing her father. Surely there was a more appropriate word to describe this feeling of emptiness, this aching wound of loss and fear and hope.

She began catalouguing words in her head as she climbed up the makeshift ladder she had built to access her tower room.

Missing; to feel a loss . Yearning, Longing, Pining.

Missing; absent, no longer present. Astray, Vanished, Misplaced.

Luna longed for her misplaced parent.

Luna's yearning for her absent father consumed her thoughts.

Daddy had vanished, leaving Luna alone to pine for him.

She heaved herself over the windowsill, landing with a practiced maneuver on her wooden floor.

She wandered to the other side of the room to kneel before her empty bookcase, calmly sorting through the pile of belongings she had scavenged from the wreckage of her home.

Those items which could be saved went on the shelf, everything else she threw out the window to join the rest of the shambles of her former life.

Her mother's locket, the hinges broken but still holding it together. She tapped it gently with her wand for a quick repair.

Shelf.

Her father's reproduction of the great warrior Aelfhere's enchanted shield. Broken beyond repair, the cheap metal sheathing peeling back from the shattered wooden base in razor sharp curls. She delicately ran her fingers over the runes her father had painstakingly handcarved into the metal.

Window.

An entirely intact single shoe from her favorite pair, decorated with petrified butterfly wings that fluttered gracefully with every step.

Shelf.

A painting she had done of Hagrid in fifth year, a single enormous hand the only recognizable feature remaining on the torn and scorched canvas.

Window.

"Oi! Watch it!"

Luna crossed to the window and leaned out curiously.

Neville was holding on midway up the ladder, one hand pressed to the top of his head. She waved down at him cheerfully.

"Hello!"

Neville rubbed his head, looking back over his shoulder at the remains of her painting, indistinguishable now from the pile of detritus it had landed in. He looked back up at her, climbing up the rest of the ladder effortlessly with a few swift movements. Luna stepped back as he swung his long legs over the sill and landed on her floor with a resounding thud.

He closed the window, turning back to lean against the wall, regarding Luna with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He shrugged one broad shoulder at the window.

"You should be a bit more careful, Luna, chucking stuff around like that. You nearly killed me!"

Luna turned her back on him, gliding to her spot by the bookcase and picking up the severed head of a stone dragon carving. She held up the head as though she were addressing it rather than Neville.

"I didn't know you were coming."

Neville walked closer, his footsteps heavy on her wooden floor. He leaned one elbow on her bookcase, looking at her oddly.

"I've been coming here nearly every day for weeks now."

Luna shrugged.

"A day is merely a series of moments. I could not possibly predict which moments would include you."

Neville gave her that look, as he sometimes did, like she was an undiscovered species of plantlife. He seemed to shake himself, continuing on.

"Well, you know I usually come after supper, and I always get here before dark."

She nodded absently, carefully placing the dragon's head on the shelf.

Dark.

That was why he was here, why she had asked him to continue coming here, after that first night.

It was … difficult for her, in the dark.

Difficult to breath, difficult to think, difficult to believe in things like hope and faith and love.

Neville knew. And so he came and chased the darkness away.

That first night … when everything had been so fresh and raw. When the endless tears of shock and horror and joy had been still wet in their eyes.

She had found him in the conservatory, carefully rescuing plants from the shards of glass they were buried in. His arms had been dripping blood, his hands torn to shreds.

She had healed him and so he healed her in return, with the strength of his arms around her and the look in his eyes as she pushed him back against the bench and took him inside her body.

It had been a breathless rush of life, a celebration of this series of moments, of love and pain and loss and joy. It had been … an exultation. A shout to the world that they were still alive, that they had won.

Victory.

Another strange sort of word. Success. Triumph. It was a strange feeling, victory and loss combined into one enormous emotion. Contrasts …

"Luna?"

She looked up to find him staring at her, his face streaked with dirt from his efforts at the school. He was the unofficial leader there now, the students following him intuitively, sensing his strength.

"Do you want me to … go or something?"

He looked uncomfortable, his shoulders drawn up in insecurity, his face evoking memories of an awkward little boy who had believed that he wasn't quite good enough.

Luna shook her head, drinking him in with her eyes. He was her … friend.

Friend; Confidant. Companion. Cohort. Intimate.

Yes, that last one worked rather nicely.

He studied her, his teeth working at his lower lip. There were dark circles under his eyes; he had been working too hard again.

He had been going on like that for years now, driven by an unseen force compelling him to try just a bit harder than everyone else.

He ran a hand through his hair; dislodging a cloud of dust and bits of stone from the castle walls he had spent the day repairing.

"I added a few more fortifying spells to your tower before I came up here. It was leaning a bit, and it worries me, having you up here with the building crumbling around you. If you would just let me tell everyone, I'm sure they would-"

"No. No one needs to know."

Neville just looked at her, drowning her soul in the sadness of his eyes. She sighed, walking forward to put a hand on his chest. His shirt was warm and damp with perspiration.

"What is something that you keep once you have given it to someone?"

His eyebrows came together in puzzlement.

"Dunno, really." He sighed, his chest moving under her hand. "You don't have to throw riddles at me, Luna. There's good reason I wasn't in Ravenclaw."

She searched his face with cautious eyes, willing him to understand.

"Your word."

He nodded slowly, his heart beating faster beneath her fingertips as she pressed herself close against him. She lifted her face to his, watching as his eyes fixed on her lips, his pupils dilating.

He sucked in a huge breath, stepping abruptly to the side and leaving her leaning against the wall, watching him as he paced around the newly patched gaping hole that marked the center of her bedroom floor.

He stopped with his back to her, craning his neck to look up at the ceiling; at the image of himself she had painted there, chained to his companions by golden strands of friendship. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"I was … worried about you today. You didn't come to the school."

"No. I was with Ginny and Hermione."

He nodded shortly without looking at her, his posture tense.

"You could've told me."

"I could have."

He turned to look at her, his eyes flashing.

"So why didn't you?"

"It was simply unnecessary."

His face contracted with a fascinating mixture of hurt, anger, frustration, and amusement. For a man who described himself as simple, Neville exhibited many complex emotions. He threw his hands out in a helpless gesture before shoving them in his pockets.

"Right. Well, I brought you something."

He walked to the window, picking up a bag she hadn't noticed him dropping earlier. He opened it, withdrawing a small flower with exquisite care, cradling the delicate bloom in his large hands. He brought it to her, holding it close to his chest like a baby.

"It's a Sangblossom."

He held it out to her and she took it gingerly under his watchful eye, bringing the flower closer to her face.

It was beautiful, delicate white petals tipped in a deep crimson dripping all the way down the throat.

He knelt in front of her so that their heads were nearly level, bringing his hands up around hers where she grasped the stem.

"They're quite rare. Legend has it that they only grow in fields soaked with the blood of heroes. This morning … the school was covered in them."

She nodded, feeling his big hands tremble against hers.

"Incredible. It looks freshly picked."

"They're enchanted to stay fresh forever, frozen in full bloom … Blood magic."

His eyes flickered up to hers, giving a glimpse of the dark corridors of his heart.

She took a shuddering breath.

"Daddy says …"

She trailed off, looking out into space as she pictured her father, trapped in the dark somewhere. She felt Neville's fingers brush her cheeks and realized she was crying.

"Yes, Luna? What does your father say?"

She smiled, putting all the rays of joy she had ever known right there in her face for him. His long dark eyelashes fluttered as his eyes widened, taking her in.

"Daddy says that the ancient wizards of the Alps believed that only a true warrior could carry a Sangblossom. They'll leave boils on the flesh of the untrue, you know."

Neville looked down at their hands, his fingers tightening on hers ever so slightly. He brought his eyes back to hers, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"So you've heard of them, then. Fascinating plants. Never heard that bit about the boils, though."

Luna stepped away, setting the blossom gently on the windowsill. She came back to him, still kneeling beside the jagged hole he had repaired in the center of her floor. She framed his face in her hands, bringing their lips together in a gentle kiss.

"Luna …"

"Shh." She pressed a fingertip to his mouth, stepping back and pulling him to his feet.

"Come to bed now."

He resisted her tugging hands, his eyes searching her face.

"Luna, I've been meaning to say that I-"

She pulled out her wand and touched his bottom lip, stopping him cold as he looked at her in question.

"No talking."

She dropped her wand and wandered to the bed, removing whatever bits of clothing her hands encountered along the way.

She settled on the bed, dressed only in a vibrant yellow pair of knickers and one rainbow striped kneesock. She glanced out the window, where the sky was darkening steadily. The familiar shiver of dread crept down her spine like melting ice.

She looked back to Neville to find him watching her. She saw him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing like a cork. He picked up her wand, walking over and setting it beside the bed. He pulled his shirt off over his head and sat to remove his socks and shoes, avoiding her eyes.

She didn't mind. She knew that he found parts of their relationship to be a trifle awkward, but she thought it was beautiful. Even the sock bits.

He crawled in beside her, wearing only his dusty trousers. He gathered her close without a word and held her as the shadows thickened in the room, the light fading slowly until there was only darkness.

She pressed her face into his broad chest, breathing him in. He was comfort and strength and loyalty and … love, in one beautiful, noble, clumsy package. His chest rumbled beneath her ear as he spoke.

"Do you want me to leave a light on?"

She shook her head, crawling on top of him as he lay passively, his hands resting neutrally on her back. He was always like this, waiting for her to signal what she wanted. He had never initiated so much as a single kiss in the course of their relationship.

Luna sensed that he was burdened by a great fear he had been carrying in his heart for years and years.

Rejection.

She put her hands on his shoulders, leaning down until she could make out his face in the sliver of moonlight from her window.

Here was all the light she needed to see her through another night.

She kissed him on the forehead before turning around and unfastening his trousers, pushing them down past his ankles to fall on the floor. He lifted his hips, but that was all he did to assist her.

She removed the rest of her clothing and lay close against him, skin to skin.

Neville watched her silently, his eyes hungry and hesitant. How she did love contrasts …

"The Unmiglati tribe believe that injuries of the soul can be healed with the power of touch."

Neville's eyes sharpened as his arms folded around her. He said nothing, doing precisely what she had asked, just as he always did.

They came together in a dizzying rush of movement, fighting side by side as always, each straining for different goals as they battled back the darkness with the sweat of their bodies.

Luna arched back as he sank into her, letting his eyes burn holes in the very fabric of her soul.

Yes, here was all the light she needed.

…

Neville lay quietly on his back, catching his breath. He looked down at the girl in his arms. Maybe a woman, now.

Her pale hair spread across his chest in a rippling river of moonlight. He was amazed that he had never noticed before, just how beautiful she really was.

He had known she was strong, and brave, and brilliant in her own rather individual way, but beautiful?

He had been blind.

Luna. He idly stroked his hand through her hair.

His second in command. His best soldier, excelling at even the most complicated spells and battle maneuvers. His best friend, there to make the hard decisions with him, ready to sacrifice anything for the good of others.

Losing her last year had been … awful.

Losing Ginny had been a difficult blow, after everything else, but losing Luna …

He had nearly lost hope.

He hadn't realized, until then, how she planted hope wherever she went, like wildflower seeds. She had kept their faith alive, fanning the flames of hope in the hearts of the student body, bringing rays of light to even the darkest of times.

And times had been dark.

He swallowed the burning lump of grief that kept rising in his throat. He had done everything in his power, but there had been so many he couldn't help. Even first and second years … just little children, really.

Tortured.

He screwed his eyelids shut, focusing on Luna's softly whistling snore. Some people feared death above anything, but for Neville it had always been torture. The fear of losing himself in the pain, the fear of never coming back.

And this last year, he had faced his fear time and again, taking punishment so that others may be spared. He had always been expendable, after all. Just a pawn in Harry's giant game of wizard's chess.

And yet he survived. But part of him was … dead somehow, deep inside. He saw it all around him, mirrored in the eyes of his fellow students, his fellow soldiers. Something lost, gone forever.

But in Luna's eyes … in Luna's eyes he saw hope and faith and love. An unshattered belief in the inherent goodness of mankind.

She saved him, every night. Bathing him in the incandescent light of her soul, bringing him into the solace of her body.

Gran knew something had changed in him. She never asked, where he went each night, but Neville rather thought she knew. She let him go where he pleased, without comment.

Something had changed in her, as well. Her eyes were no longer sharp with disappointment whenever she looked at him. They had softened around the edges, the pain of losing her child finally replaced with pride in her grandson.

Neville wished he could enjoy it more. Everything was … duller now. He felt like he was just plodding through his days to get to the nights; when he didn't have to pretend anymore, that everything was alright.

When he could be himself, with her, and let her wash away the pain.

…

Hermione's face was hidden by the enormous tome in front of her, the frizzy edges of her hair the only feature visible around the intimidating expanse of worn leather.

Ron tilted his head to read the title.

'_Mythical Creatures or Magical Fact?_ A fresh examination of the beasts of legends and lore from the modern wizard's perspective.'

He cringed. Even the title was long and boring.

He sat down in the lumpy armchair across from her that still somehow retained just a hint of his great-aunt's perfume. They were the only two people in the family room.

George had gone off to recover from their shopping excursion, claiming to be running low on essential fuel. Ron thought that by 'fuel' he probably meant Firewhiskey.

Harry had disappeared too, in search of Ginny, no doubt. Percy and Charlie hadn't returned yet from whatever it was they had spent the day doing.

So the house was quiet. Deserted, practically. And Hermione had her nose stuck in a book. Typical.

Just his luck, really. The one moment of uninterrupted privacy he had with her all day, and she was reading.

Her muttering suddenly changed, darkening in tone and rising in pitch. He leaned forward to try and make out what she was saying.

"-why that little-" unintelligible mutter "-I can't believe-" mumble "Well!"

Ron's curiosity finally got the better of him. He had to know what was in that exceedingly boring book that was making her so cross.

"Talking back to you, is it? They've gotten a bit too cheeky these days, if you ask me. Books, I mean."

She raised her head, blinking rapidly like someone who had just emerged from under water.

"I-what? No. No, it isn't the book at all. It's Luna."

Ron leaned his elbows on his knees, curiosity turning to keen interest. He smelled a story.

"Loony Lovegood?"

"Don't call her that."

"Yeah, alright. So what's Luna done to get your knickers in a twist? Does it have something to do with why you're yelling at that book?"

"She has everything to do with it and – I was not yelling, Ron!"

He winced. Well, she was certainly making up for it now, then.

"Right. Then why were you, um, fussing at the book, then?"

"I was _not_-oh, nevermind. It's the gillywobs, you see."

"The whosy-whatsits?"

"Gillywobs. "

She ducked her head back into the book.

"Miniscule mythical creatures that gather in swarms around minds resistant to the fantastic. Often used by heroes of lore to pick out those with an intolerant disposition. "

She looked back up at Ron, thumping the book on the coffee table.

"Don't you see, Ron? She was calling me closed-minded! That little … "

She picked up the book again, flipping madly through the pages.

"Ah! That little binglegus!"

Ron didn't ask what that was supposed to mean. Frankly, he didn't 'see' at all, what she was talking about.

"I-uh, I'm sure she didn't mean…"

Hermione let the book thud heavily back on the table.

"Oh, that's _precisely_ what she meant!"

She stood, pacing the rug in front of him.

"I mean, _you_ don't think I'm narrow-minded, do you?"

Ron shook his head frantically, acutely aware that he was very close to being drawn into a whirlpool of wrath. He opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to his head.

"I'm getting dress robes."

She stopped and looked at him, her forehead drawn in puzzlement. He struggled to continue his impromptu conversation starter rather than return to the subject of Luna's rather bizarre insult.

"We're having them made, I mean. Me, Harry, George."

She sat on the floor in front of him, leaning back on her hands. He took that as a sign to continue.

"We, um, we went to a local shop, here in Devon. Harry didn't want to go to Diagon Alley, because … you know …. George."

Hermione nodded softly.

"Of course."

She looked up at him expectantly, and Ron realized with a panic that he had nothing more to say.

He also realized, looking down at her, that he had meant to do something today, and now was his perfect opportunity. He stood suddenly, gesturing out with flattened hands in her direction as he headed for the door.

"You just, um, just stay right here, alright? Don't move."

She nodded slowly, watching him disappear into the kitchen where he practically ran out the back door.

Flowers.

There had to be some around here, right? His Mum loved bloody flowers, after all.

He headed for the garden, pausing as he caught sight of Fred's grave. Well, there were some flowers, but they were Fred's. And something seemed just a bit … off about them.

He continued on into the garden, picking blooms at random as he came to them, forming a rather dilapidated looking bouquet.

He decided he had spent enough time and headed back, afraid that Hermione would have returned to her book by now.

He stopped just inside the back door, looking down at the bundle of flowers in his hand.

Pathetic, really. Most of them had broken stems from where he had clumsily ripped then away, so they hung drunkenly in all directions. He was even fairly certain that he had thrown a few weeds in there, he hoped she wasn't allergic or something. All in all, a dismal attempt on his part. He really was rubbish at this sort of thing.

He shoved the bouquet behind his back, walking cautiously back into the family room to find Hermione occupying his chair, waiting patiently with her hands clasped in her lap.

He caught his breath as she looked up at him, her eyes filled with that strange and wonderful thing that did mental things to his insides.

He walked to stand in front of her, opening his mouth a few times before kneeling abruptly, thrusting out his flowers at her.

She took them gracefully, her fingers curving around the broken stems lovingly, like he had just handed her a treasure or something.

She looked down at them, sniffing a bit.

Ron cringed. Shite. She _was_ allergic, then. Just his luck.

He started to grab them back, preparing to throw them out, but then she looked up at him.

Her chocolate brown eyes were swimming in diamond tears, her cheeks flushed pink. She was so beautiful. She sniffed again, and he realized that it was from the tears.

"Thank you. They're beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

Bloody hell, he'd done it again. Hadn't meant to say that. It was just … he thought it a thousand times a day, so it had just … slipped out.

Her eyes widened as she grew very still, the flowers falling to her lap. The pink in her cheeks faded away. She looked … stricken. Ron wondered frantically if he had messed up worse than he thought.

"Ron …"

She blinked rapidly, looking down at the flowers in her lap and then back up at him.

"Ron, that's very sweet of you, but you don't have to … lie to me. I-I appreciate the flowers, they're lovely."

Ron was entirely confused. She thought he was lying? About what? About…

His own eyes widened as he realized that she didn't believe him. She didn't know she was beautiful.

He looked up at her through his lashes. How could she not know? She knew everything. And here was a fact so … obvious. Even he had known … for years, now.

He took her hands in his, scooting closer so that she was forced to look down into his face.

"Hermione … I wasn't lying."

She shook her head, turning away, but her grabbed her chin and brought her eyes back to his.

"I meant it. You're beautiful."

She tried to shake her head again, fat tears streaming down her cheeks.

He rose up slightly, kissing away the tears from her lips, kissing his way along her jaw up to whisper in the delicate shell of her ear.

"Beautiful."

She broke into sobs, shocking him as he gathered her close, stroking her hair until it passed. Eventually she stilled in his arms, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping her face before shoving him away.

He fell back, wondering at her vehemence. She looked down in her lap, gathering the scattered bouquet frantically.

"Oh Ron! Your flowers!"

He looked at them, but they didn't really seem any worse than when he had brought them to her.

He covered her hands with his.

"S'alright, Hermione. Look, I've been meaning to ask you something."

She looked up at him, something new added to the wonderful things he saw in her eyes, something shiny and … beautiful. He shook himself, focusing on the task at hand.

He took a deep breath, preparing for the plunge.

"I-willyougototheballwithme?"

She looked down at the flowers in her lap and then back up at him. Ron's chest constricted with doubt. He brought the back of her hand to his lips, kissing lightly as he looked into her eyes.

"Please?"

She nodded, a huge grin spreading across her face like wildfire.

She leaned down suddenly, grasping his face with her hands and bringing his lips up for a searing kiss he felt right down to his toes.

She released him and he reeled back drunkenly, landing on his bum. She stood, holding the flowers like a trophy, smiling down at him with all the concentrated warmth of the sun.

She looked around the deserted room before throwing him a coy smile.

"Meet me in your room, alright? I'll just …"

She sighed deeply, wiping her eyes.

"I'll just go put these in some water."

She turned and … twirled into the kitchen, leaving Ron staring after her.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	20. Chapter 20 Magnetism

**I do not own even a tiny bit of Harry Potter, and I am not the fantastic J.K. Rowling.**

**Thanks for reading, and for bearing with me through my little detours into other characters. **

**Thank you especially to those spectacular people who reviewed, I'm always wondering what people think of my story, and y'all were the ones brave enough to tell me!**

**And now: some pure, undiluted Romioneness! Enjoy!  
**

* * *

Ron sat on his bed, attempting to strike a casual pose and failing quite miserably.

She could be coming up here any second, now. How long exactly did it take to put some mangled flowers in water? Knowing Hermione, she'd probably forgotten she was a witch and decided to do it the muggle way.

He stood quickly as he heard her light footsteps springing up the stairs. Maybe he shouldn't already be on the bed when she came in. Yeah, that might seem a bit too eager.

He looked around frantically for something to be doing, so it wouldn't look like he had spent all this time thinking about the possible things she might want to do once she got up here. He tried to push back his glittering burst of anticipation. For all he knew, she was coming up here to have a bloody _conversation_ or something.

He grabbed the book she had left on the nightstand and opened it to a random page, leaning against the wobbly piece of furniture in a pose that was supposed to look relaxed but was actually turning out to be bloody uncomfortable.

The door swung open and there she was.

The book hung uselessly in his hands; he simply couldn't be bothered with anything else when she was in the room. In _his_ room. His _bed_room.

She closed the door, walking forward a few steps and offering him a shy smile.

Merlin, but he wanted to kiss her.

She looked down at the book hanging limply in his hands and then back up at him.

"Were you reading, Ron?"

He closed the book, setting it crookedly on the nightstand and taking a step closer to her. It was like she was a magnet or something; he simply couldn't resist the pull.

"Yeah, well. I do that sometimes, you know."

She smiled up at him, her face absolutely radiant. He was quite frankly amazed that she hadn't known she was beautiful. He still wasn't quite sure that she believed him, actually. He supposed he'd just have to try and show her as best he could.

She looked down at her hands, twisting them nervously in front of her.

He liked the blouse she was wearing; it was so sheer that he could make out the little knit top she wore underneath, as well as a hint of the straps of her … um.

And she had worn a skirt today, dressed up for shopping, he supposed. The light floral fabric fell softly to her knees, skimming the glorious curves of her body. She may have gotten a bit too thin lately, but she still had a magnificent shape to her.

Ron felt his ears turn red as he considered the myriad possibilities that skirt presented to him.

He dragged his eyes up her body to find Hermione watching him, a hint of pink flushing her cheeks. He blushed hard as he realized that he had been caught staring.

He struggled for something to say, to break the tension, but she beat him to it.

"Thank you for the flowers, Ron. I- it was very sweet of you."

He nodded dumbly. She deserved flowers. Proper flowers; from a shop. Not mutilated ones filched from his Mum's garden.

She was watching him with those big brown eyes, like she expected him to say something.

How could she possibly expect him to gather words together in his brain when all of his blood was busily rushing … elsewhere. Just the thought of her in that skirt was more than enough to get him going.

He gave up the pretense with a sigh of surrender, stepping forward and taking her into his arms.

He swallowed her soft gasp of surprise with a kiss that grew suddenly scorching as she opened her lips in invitation and he thrust his tongue past the barrier of her teeth, imitating the act his body wanted so badly to perform on hers.

His arms pulled her tight against him, one of his hands venturing dangerously low on her back. He could feel the elastic of her knickers through her skirt.

Her little hands were digging into his hair, yanking him down to her level as she gave as good as she got. She rose one knee, wrapping her leg about his calf and rubbing herself closer against him, her skirt riding up her thigh.

Dragon's teeth, he could take her right here on the floor if she would let him.

She pushed him back until he crashed into the nightstand, turning them so that they fell onto his bed. The soft give of her beneath him was becoming familiar now, but no less exciting.

She scooted up on the bed, pulling at his shoulders to make him follow. As if he wouldn't follow her to the ends of the bloody earth for another kiss.

He braced his hands on his headboard, framing her face as she leaned against it, looking up at him. He swooped down for another kiss, and then another, one blending seamlessly into the next.

He started to pull her down, so that she lay beneath him again, but she pushed him away. He fought the urge to ignore her stalling hands and yank her down anyway. He sat back on his heels, struggling to breathe normally as she looked up at him with widened eyes.

He had already messed her hair up royally; it looked like a big brown powder puff, fluffing out in all directions.

Beautiful.

She looked away for a moment, biting her lip as she seemed to struggle with something. He loved it when she bit her lip like that, the plump pink flesh pulling slowly away from her small white teeth.

He'd be more than happy to bite that for her, if she wanted. Looked bloody delicious.

She raised her hands haltingly to the neck of her blouse, taking an audible breath before releasing the buttons quickly, pulling her arms out of the sleeves and allowing the fabric to fall to the floor.

Ron's heart stopped beating for a moment before it picked back up in double time.

He took a moment to simply look at her, at the expanse of creamy flesh she had just exposed to his gaze.

He felt … honored, actually. She had just given him a gift, one infinitely better than his measly offering of flowers.

Her arms were slender and graceful, her shoulders slight but strong. The rounded curve of her breasts pressed enticingly against the low neckline of her top with every breath.

Suddenly looking just wasn't enough. He had to touch her. It was quite simply either that, or die.

He ran a finger slowly down the skin of her arm, marveling at the silken texture of her. It was like she was made of clouds, or something.

Her head fell back against the headboard, exposing the smooth flesh of her throat. He leaned in; gently kissing the thin white scar Bellatrix's knife had left to mar her perfect skin.

For a frightening moment he felt angry tears burning behind his eyes, but he shoved them back, focusing instead on the fact that she was safe now, in his arms. In his bed.

He rubbed his face into her hair, absorbing the irresistible scent of her. There was something he had always found very … comforting about her hair. He could always count on it, he supposed. It was always there, reaching out to tickle his nose or fall into her eyes. Wild and free and beautiful.

He remembered surreptitiously petting it while she was sleeping, those endless nights on the Horcrux hunt. He had told himself that he had done it to be sure that she was sleeping safe and sound, but he had also just needed to feel something good and pure and real in his hands. Something that felt like … home.

She turned her head, kissing his neck, darting her clever little tongue out to trace the edge of his ear, sending a jolt of lightning through his body.

He scooted back on the bed before grasping her hips and yanking her down until she lay flat, looking up at him with her pink lips rounded in a surprised "oh!" .

He sat back up, running his hands down the length of her legs. Her skirt was twisted around the middle of her thighs and he tugged at it to get it to loosen for him. She stopped him with a firm hand on his wrist, bringing his fevered gaze up to hers.

"Careful, you'll rip it. This is my favorite."

He nodded blankly, failing to understand how she could remain so coherent at a time like this, when the only word he could manage to think of with any consistency was her name.

He moved his hands to her waist, watching closely as she lifted her hips and untangled her skirt, thrilling at the tiny glimpses of pale flesh the maneuver offered him.

Once she had settled back down he traced the hem of her skirt, his hand rising and falling across the naked mounds of her knees. The urge to slide his hands beneath the fabric was so strong that his fingers began to tremble against her skin.

"Ron."

He looked up, meeting her eyes, falling deep into the warm brown orbs that had suddenly become his entire world.

She curved her hand around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, her hands moving across his back and out to push at his arms until he collapsed to his elbows, his body falling against her. She made a tiny noise that made his toes curl, shifting her body beneath his with fantastic results.

He moved his hands to cup around the back of her shoulders, her warm skin burning against his.

He met her eyes as she curled one leg around his, pulling his hips more firmly against her. The provocative directness of her gaze started a fire in him that burned so rapidly it consumed his remaining stores of rational thought. Some barrier he had built up within himself broke with a thunderous roar.

Nothing existed in the world beyond the two of them, in this bed. Her body against his, her skin beneath his touch, the taste of her on his tongue.

Something deep and primitive emerged in him and he forgot his intentions of gentleness, his determination to keep himself in check. She was challenging him, with those eyes, and the primordial male in him rose to the challenge.

He shoved her legs roughly out of the way with his knees, settling against her, shifting until he was right _there_. Fuck, she felt brilliant.

She gasped softly, feeding the fire. He wanted to shock her, to make her see that she belonged to him, that he could meet any challenge she could issue.

He ran his open mouth across her throat, down to lick at the graceful curves of her collarbones. He wanted to fit every inch of her skin in his mouth, one tiny taste at a time. She arched her neck, her hands running frantically through his hair. He smiled against her skin. She _liked_ it.

His smile faded like it had never been as she bunched his shirt up around his shoulders, dragging her nails down the skin of his back.

It was a fight, then. A familiar dynamic for the two of them, each one throwing more and more at the other until someone finally gave. But this time, it wouldn't be him.

He caressed her face, holding her gaze as he ran his hand down the length of her neck, never stopping until he cupped the curve of her breast in the palm of his hand. Her eyes flashed on his as she arched into his touch, refusing to back down.

He sat back on his knees, filling both his hands with her warm flesh, claiming her as his own.

…

Hermione bit back a moan as Ron cupped her breasts with both hands, his eyes burning into hers.

There was something different about his eyes now, something candid and feral. Predatory, almost. She felt a shiver run down her spine at the thought.

Helpless little noises escaped her throat as he explored her with rough hands, squeezing and rubbing without a hint of mercy. She gasped as he paused, stroking the peak of each breast softly with his fingertips, sending little shocks throughout her body. He smiled down at her, his teeth flashing savagely.

He thought he had won.

She decided to turn the tables, grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him down forcibly until she could capture his lips, using her tongue and teeth to keep him off balance while she hitched her legs up higher on his hips, her skirt bunching up around her waist.

He moaned; the sound seeming ripped from the very depths of his soul, as he smoothed his hand down the length of her thigh. Merlin, but she loved his hands.

She snuck her own hands lower and lower down his back until she was holding the firm curve of his bottom, kneading his flesh.

He grew very still for a moment, dragging his mouth away from hers to meet her eyes. A slow smile spread across his face as he cupped the base of her skull in one hand, bringing the other down to her hip.

Holding her in place, he slowly urged his hips against hers; causing the most exquisite friction she had ever known. She closed her eyes, feeling his muscles bunch beneath her hands.

Her eyes snapped back open as she realized that she had lost the advantage.

Although, looking at him, he seemed to be just as affected as she was. Beads of sweat collected on his brow, his vibrant hair sticking to his face and neck. His lips were parted with labored breathing; his eyes squeezed shut with a look of intense concentration.

She decided to take advantage of his distraction, digging her heels into the mattress and rocking her hips beneath his.

His eyes popped open immediately, patent shock plainly visible in his flushed face. She smiled up at him. Yes, that had indeed done the trick.

She did it again for good measure, bringing a growl from deep in his throat and throwing him into a frenzy of motion.

The ancient mattress creaked beneath them as he pressed against her time and again, his hands hauling her thighs even higher on his hips, his hot mouth sucking eagerly at her throat. He started talking quietly, senseless strings of words mumbled against her skin, his voice low and rough and wonderful.

She wasn't sure who was winning, but she really didn't care anymore.

The door banged open, freezing them in place as they both looked over at Harry.

He stopped, dropping the newspaper he held in his hands, his face burning red and his mouth gaping open in disbelief. He turned his back immediately, both hands pressed to his eyes.

"Oh, c'mon, guys! Really!?"

Ron looked down at her, his ears practically glowing. She wondered for an insane moment if they would be visible from outer space. He blinked, looking as though he was not quite sure exactly how he had gotten to be where he was. He mumbled an apology, avoiding her eyes as he pulled away from her.

She sat up, pulling her clothing back into place. She ran her hands through her hair, finding it to be a matted bird's nest. Ron's didn't really look much better, damp with perspiration and sticking up all over in little clumps.

She got down on the floor, fishing for her blouse under the bed and hastily putting it back on. She chanced a look at Harry, he hadn't moved. She turned her eyes to Ron, but he was looking determinedly down at the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed with the blankets bunched up in his fists.

She stood in the middle of the room, both boys looking firmly away from her. She cleared her throat nervously.

"I should just, well. I'll just go then, shall I?"

She looked around, but neither so much as twitched to acknowledge that she had spoken. They both looked a bit like they were in pain, actually, Harry's back rigid and Ron's jaw clenched tight.

She walked to the door, each step seeming to echo in the quiet room. She looked up at Harry with her hand on the doorknob, every bit of his skin visible around his hands flaming red.

For the first time, she felt ashamed of what she and Ron had done together. Tears welled up in her eyes and she brushed them away impatiently, her voice tiny and strained.

"Sorry, Harry."

She left, closing the door behind her and running down the stairs to Ginny's room. Thankfully, it was deserted, and she sat down on her cot, catching her breath.

How had that happened?

Honestly. She had meant to give him a few kisses, a reward for his romantic gesture and thoughtfulness. And it had somehow turned into some kind of carnal battle.

She wasn't even sure exactly who had started it, and she was even less sure of who had won.

And Harry … how was she ever going to face him again?

She fell back on the cot, pressing a pillow to her burning face.

…

Ron sat on the edge of his bed, struggling to regain brain function. Harry still stood with his back to him, his hands pressed to his eyes like he was trying to erase the sight of them.

The sound of the door closing behind Hermione resounded across the room, sweeping away a bit of the hormonal cloud fogging his mind.

Merlin's Beard, what had he done? He wouldn't blame her if she ran screaming the next time she saw him. And poor Harry …

He looked up at his best friend. His shoulders were shaking. Ron hoped it was not with rage, he just didn't have it in him to fight at this moment.

A few suspicious sounds came from Harry's direction, punctuated by a loud snort. He lowered his hands, turning around to look at Ron before collapsing on his bed, holding his stomach as he shook with laughter.

"Oh! You-you , I can't believe you-and I-and then…"

He seemed unable to continue, trying to muffle his mirth with his fist as he caught the full heat of Ron's glare.

"It's not funny."

Harry shook his head frantically, a loud guffaw bursting from his lips as he met Ron's eyes.

"I'm sorry mate, it's just that you-"

Whatever he had meant to say was lost in a fit of giggles Ron personally considered to be terribly unmanly.

He stood and stormed to the door. Harry sat up, following him with streaming eyes.

"Yeah, you should probably, um, take care of that. Before you have to go down to" *snicker* "supper."

He gestured vaguely at Ron's trousers.

Ron glared at him menacingly, making a rude gesture with his hand before wrenching the door open and heading for the loo.

…

Harry sat on his bed, trying to stem the hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat. It really shouldn't be all that funny, but it was. He couldn't help it.

He simply couldn't believe that he had walked in on them practically … well.

It was certainly something to hold over Ron's head for, oh, eternity, perhaps. Poor bloke. Looked like he was about to explode when Hermione left.

Hermione.

You know, actually it really wasn't all that funny, after all.

He had a sudden urge to bash Ron's face in. What was he thinking, the stupid git? Trying to get into Hermione's knickers in his parents' house? Anyone could have walked in on them, it could have been far worse than just Harry.

And Harry would not see her shamed in front of Ron's family.

He thought about how sad she had sounded when she left. He had been struggling so hard to contain his laughter that he had been unable to respond. He would have to find her later and apologize.

The door opened slowly and Ron walked back in, scooping up the newspaper off the floor and trying to hide his burning face behind it as he sat stiffly on the edge of his bed.

Okay, so that was funny.

Harry looked at his best mate, overcome with hilarity once again as he saw that the newspaper was upside-down. He coughed to conceal his laughter.

"Well. That certainly didn't take long."

Ron lowered the paper just enough to throw daggers at him with narrowed eyes before snapping it back open like he was reading it intently.

Harry snickered quietly until Ron finally threw the paper down angrily.

"What!? Have something more to say, do you?"

Harry shook his head, trying to look innocent.

"No, no. It's just – what did you think of that article?"

Ron stared at him blankly. Harry strode forward, picking up the newspaper, righting it, and holding it in front of Ron's face.

He knew very well that the headline read:

'Boy Who Lived Prepares to Live It Up at Ministry Gala'

Beneath was a grainy photo of Ron and Harry being measured for dress robes. Ron sighed and shifted occasionally, jumping as a pin poked him. George's head could just be seen ducking back behind the tailor.

Ron grabbed the paper, his mouth hanging open.

"But-I-what? How did they do this? This just happened this morning, and there weren't even any reporters around, then."

He looked up at Harry, letting the paper fall to the floor. Harry picked it up, folding it and setting it on his nightstand as he sat back on his bed.

"It's tomorrow's paper."

Ron furrowed his brow.

"Then how did you manage to get a copy today? Before supper!?"

Harry grinned at him cheekily.

"Because I'm Harry effing Potter, mate!"

Ron rolled his eyes, flopping back on his bed.

Harry eyed him discreetly, wondering how exactly to approach the delicate topic of Ron and Hermione's swiftly intensifying relationship.

Ron turned his head suddenly, spearing Harry with his gaze.

"Alright. Out with it. I know you're jus' dying to say something."

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, gathering his thoughts.

"I'm just a bit … concerned. About Hermione, I mean."

Ron nodded, looking up at the ceiling. Harry took that as a cue to continue.

"I-well, you've got to consider her … reputation, haven't you?"

Ron nodded again, and Harry saw him swallow.

"I think maybe we should … shift our rules around a bit."

Ron sat up, finally looking at him. He ran his hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in spikes.

"Yeah, alright. Where do you want to start?"

Harry looked down at his hands. If he was entirely honest with himself, this wasn't just about Hermione. He wanted to change their rules to suit him and Ginny, as well. He looked back up to find Ron watching him cautiously.

The poor git still had blotches of color staining his cheeks. He had to be embarrassed enough to last the rest of the week, let alone the evening.

"Well, first off, I think our notion of… waiting for marriage was a bit too … idealistic, don't you?"

Ron nodded, saying nothing.

"Right. So we're in agreement, there. So maybe we should … move it up a bit."

Ron looked puzzled.

"Move what up?"

Harry sighed.

"Look, what about if I just promise to wait until Ginny is out of school?"

Ron looked down at the floor, running his hands over his face before looking back up at Harry.

"Alright. What do you want from me, in return?"

Harry thought about it.

"What if you just wait until you're out of the Burrow? It would be really awful if your Mum found you or something. I mean-just think of how Hermione would feel, then."

Ron nodded.

"You're right."

He rubbed his face more vigorously, sighing deeply.

"Bloody hell, you're absolutely right. Okay, I think I can manage that."

Harry nodded, waiting for Ron to make the next move. He finally looked up nervously.

"An' what about the rest of it, then?"

Harry shrugged.

"I don't think we really need any more rules than that, do you?"

Ron shook his head slowly, looking out the window at the dwindling light. Harry cleared his throat.

"Um, Ron ?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you … read that book yet? The one you lent me?"

Ron blushed, looking down at the floor.

"No."

"Well, I think maybe you should … just … just in case, you know?"

Ron nodded, standing without meeting Harry's eye.

"I'm just, um, going to help Mum with the table and everything…"

He escaped, shutting the door quietly behind him, leaving Harry to wonder just how he had gone from worrying about Horcruxes to worrying about Hermione's reputation.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	21. Chapter 21 Scary Sometimes

**I still don't own any part of Harry Potter, and I'm still not J.K. Rowling.**

**Thank you for reading, and thanks to the people who reviewed, you always keep me wanting to post that next chapter a soon as I write it.**

* * *

Ginny backed into her room, nudging the door open with her hip as she lugged in a towering basket of clean laundry to put away.

Funny. She could have sworn that she'd left it open …

She dropped the basket onto her bed with a bouncy thud, the top layer of clothing leaping out and scattering across her bedspread. She'd have to refold those. Troll bollocks.

She turned in a circle, looking down at her wooden floor for any particularly acrobatic articles of clothing. Nope. All clear.

But there was something amiss.

The patchwork quilt on Hermione's cot was draped over something lumpy … and sniffling.

Ginny closed the door quietly before turning and settling herself on the foot of Hermione's bed, staring down at the sniffly lump. She picked up a corner of the quilt and whisked it away, exposing Hermione curled up on her side, her hands pressed to her face.

Ginny leaned forward in concern, dropping the quilt on the floor.

"What's this, then?"

Hermione just shook her head, patting around herself blindly for the quilt and only looking up at Ginny once she realized that it was gone.

Ginny scooted closer until her bent knees prodded Hermione's shins.

"Alright, spill. What's he gone and done now?"

Hermione uncurled herself, sitting up and shaking her head sadly, looking down at her clasped hands.

"Nothing at all. He was … wonderful."

She looked up suddenly, flashing a smile so bright it made Ginny want to squint.

"He gave me flowers…and asked me to attend the ball with him."

Ginny grabbed her knee, bouncing excitedly.

"That's brilliant, Hermione! It was exactly as I told you it would be, wasn't it?"

Hermione nodded, the smile fading to be replaced by tight-lipped tension.

Ginny tilted her head, confused by the change in mood.

"So what's wrong, then?"

Hermione glanced up at her with narrow eyes.

"Can I trust you to keep a secret, even from Harry?"

Ginny nodded enthusiastically, she loved secrets!

Hermione glanced at the door before lowering her voice and leaning in.

"I am very much afraid that I might be …"

Ginny filled in the short pause with a million possibilities, ranging from the absurd to the mundane, with several stops in between.

Pregnant. Mental. Sick. Insufferable. Invisible. Homosexual. Lactose Intolerant. None of these seemed terribly likely, but it was rather fun to play mad libs with dramatic pauses. She had learned that from hanging around Harry so much.

"a _scarlet woman_."

Ginny choked on a particularly sharp bit of air.

That had not even made it into the absurd section of her possibility spectrum. She would have to work on that in future.

She looked at her friend, who was now watching her with what appeared to be genuine worry on the subject.

Ginny used up her last stores of tactfulness to keep from laughing. She reached out; patting Hermione's tightly clasped hands, striving for an air of seriousness.

"You're not."

Hermione lowered her eyebrows, fixing Ginny with a disbelieving stare.

"How do you know?"

"I-well… how many boys have you kissed?"

Hermione blushed, glancing away before giving Ginny a calculating look.

"Can I count Harry?"

Ginny shook her head sternly, getting into the fun of it. She had missed girl-talk, nights spent sitting up in the dorms talking about nothing and everything all at once.

There had been none of that last year. All the late night talking had been comparing theories of Harry's whereabouts and concocting plans to help however they could. Boys became fellow soldiers or enemies in the fight, not something to giggle about.

"No. No friend kisses. So you can't count Neville, either. I mean a proper snogging."

Hermione plucked at the sheets for a moment before speaking with obvious reluctance.

"Two. Three, if you count Cormac, but I would prefer to categorize my experience with him under 'nightmare' rather than 'snogging', if you don't mind."

Ginny laughed, nodding.

"So you see, not exactly the town broomstick, are you?"

Hermione smiled at the joke, relaxing slightly and making a bit more room for them to sit comfortably together. She settled in and resumed picking imaginary fuzz off of the sheets.

"That isn't what I meant, Ginny. I meant … "

She trailed off, a bright red flush rising from her neck to spread across her face. Ginny smiled conspiratorially.

"You meant just with Ron."

Hermione nodded, looking at her and then quickly away, as though nervous of her reaction.

"Did something … happen between the two of you?"

Hermione hesitated before shaking her head, showing just enough weakness for Ginny to pounce upon.

"Something happened. Oh, you _have_ to tell me now! Did you … you didn't, did you? "

Hermione's eyes widened as she shook her head frantically.

"No, no, of course we didn't!"

Ginny nodded; satisfied that she was telling the truth. She leaned back against the wall.

"Well you can't blame me for asking. I'm not sure what to think, after what Luna said at tea today."

Hermione nodded, her eyes sharpening as she seized on the tangent leading away from her relationship with Ron.

"I know, I simply couldn't believe it! How long do you think they've really been … I mean, you were with them more this last year than I was. When exactly did things … change between them?"

Ginny shrugged.

"I don't know. When we came back to school, after the three of you left… _everything _had changed. Neville had to step into Harry's place, I suppose, organizing and commanding our ragtag little army. Luna took over for you, explaining the more difficult bits of magic to the rest of us. They spent a good bit of time together, but I was there for most of it and there was no … flirting, or anything. Nothing obvious, like you and Ron."

Hermione scrunched up her nose in indignation.

"Obvious? We were never … oh, you mean since we've been staying at the Burrow."

Ginny shook her head, grinning widely.

"No. I mean since second year."

Hermione affected a look of shock which Ginny was keen enough to spot as fake.

"Sec-second year!? Don't be ridiculous. We never … _flirted_ until very recently."

Ginny stifled a giggle at the way Hermione whispered the word 'flirted' like it was the title of a dirty novel she'd like to borrow.

"Oh c'mon, all of those blazing rows across the years? Hermione, it was perfectly obvious what the two of you were actually fighting about. You were both just so stubborn that it took you ages to sort it out for yourselves."

Hermione tossed her hair with indignation.

"Well I really don't think … I mean, honestly, Ginny! Ron and I fight because we have difficulty seeing eye to eye on certain things. Not because we're _flirting_!"

Ginny allowed herself to giggle at the second time Hermione whispered the word.

"Oh. Well, if you say so …"

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ginny's obvious disbelief, blowing a mangled brown curl out of her face. Ginny leaned in and poked at her head.

"And just what happened to your hair, exactly? You look a bit like you've lost a rather nasty battle with a ceiling fan."

Hermione slapped her hand away, pressing her own hands down on her hair in a futile attempt to calm it.

"I-I-I well, if you must know … I was … napping."

"Pixieshit."

Hermione gave her a dark look.

"Don't swear, Ginny."

Ginny rolled her eyes.

"I'll stop swearing if you tell me; well, at least until supper. I make no promises after that."

Hermione blew out a loud breath, sinking back into her pillow.

"Alright. We were … snogging earlier. Harry walked in on us."

Ginny covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes twinkling at Hermione with hilarity.

"He did?! Oh, that's awful! But he didn't … I mean you weren't, so … it wasn't that bad, right?"

Hermione groaned, bringing her own hands up to cover her red face.

"It was horrible!"

Ginny folded her arms, watching Hermione closely for a reaction.

"So you weren't just snogging, then?"

Hermione shook her head, hands still pressed to her face. She lowered them slowly, looking at Ginny with eyes wet with tears. Ginny unfolded her arms, leaning in with concern.

"Well, whatever happened, I'm sure it's nothing to cry about."

"Oh Ginny, I don't know how I'll ever face him again!"

Ginny scrunched up her nose.

"Ron?"

"No. Harry."

"Oh. Well, I wouldn't worry too much about it, Hermione. He and I have probably gone farther than you and Ron have, anyway."

Hermione sat up straight, eyes wide, tears apparently forgotten.

"How far do you mean, exactly?"

Ginny felt a blush creep into her cheeks and cursed her Weasley skin for showing weakness.

"Nothing particularly scandalous, I'm afraid. I've … well, I've let him under my blouse a few times."

She eyed Hermione's blouse, the thin material buttoned all the way up to her neck.

"I doubt Ron could get under that without ripping something."

Hermione's face turned scarlet. Ginny's eyebrows climbed higher as she grinned evilly.

"But he did, didn't he!? Is _that_ what Harry saw?"

Hermione shook her head miserably.

"_Worse_ than that?"

She nodded , her head drooping with even more misery.

Ginny smacked the cot in consternation.

"That little gnome fart! Do you mean to tell me that he's been breaking his own bloody ridiculous rules behind our backs!?"

Hermione leaned a little farther away, obviously extremely confused by Ginny's reaction. She opened her mouth a couple of times before any words began to emerge.

"I-what? Rules? Whose rules, exactly?"

Ginny scrunched her mouth to the side. Looked like she'd really stepped in it, now. Hermione obviously didn't know about the rules. Troll bollocks.

"Oh, well, I just meant that Ron gave Harry all of these rules-"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up into her hairline.

"Ron? _Rules_!?"

Ginny nodded.

"Right. A load of rubbish about Harry treating me like a bloody saint or something. Ridiculous, like I said, but Harry thought Ron was following them too, with you. He was probably a bit cheesed off to see Ron breaking them, actually."

Hermione shook her head slowly, looking off somewhere faraway while her formidable mind processed the unexpected information. Her eyes suddenly focused back on Ginny, startling in their directness.

"And Ron knew about this?"

Ginny nodded.

"Yeah, it's like I said, _his_ rules."

Hermione didn't even blink.

"How do you feel about this?"

Ginny shrugged casually.

"I think it's complete and utter rubbish. S'none of Ron's business, what I get up to behind closed doors… Or large shrubberies."

She sent Hermione a broad wink, earning only a twitch of a smile. She continued on bravely, only slightly unnerved by Hermione's tightly focused attention.

"And S'none of ours, what you and Ron are up to. So, I've been working on Harry, wearing him down, you see? He thinks he and Ron know what's best for us, but they're both thick in the head, if you ask me. Harry's easy enough; the trick is not to give him enough time to feel bad about it."

She eyed Hermione slyly, making a generic gesture with her hand.

"An' I'm sure you've got a few tricks up your sleeve when it comes to Ron, as well."

The warm fires that were characteristic of Hermione's eyes flared for a brief moment with excruciating brightness, making Ginny's gaze flicker away. She leaned in, grabbing Ginny's hand.

"It is simply _not_ to be tolerated. If Ron and Harry think they can control us, well … I suppose we'll just have to prove them wrong."

Ginny nodded enthusiastically, thrusting her fist through the air with pugilistic glee.

"That's right! Take the blighters down a peg!"

Hermione nodded shortly.

"Precisely. Do you know, Ginny … I think I may just stay in your room tonight, if it's alright with you."

Ginny felt a grin tugging at the edges of her lips.

"Yes, that would be lovely."

Hermione squeezed her hand.

"Excellent. We'll need time to think of a proper course of action."

Ginny nodded, that grin spreading quickly across her face.

As much as it hurt to admit, Ron was actually right for once.

Hermione _was_ a bit scary sometimes.

…

George stood facing a rather ordinary door, feeling as if he were standing before an insurmountable wall.

Beyond that wall there was hope and laughter and companionship. Out here there was only grief and rage and loneliness.

But he couldn't climb the bloody wall.

He eyed the buzzer, willing his fingers to press it, but the little buggers simply would not cooperate. They clenched instead around the neck of the bottle he carried with him. He stood there for a while, just staring at the door.

He had a habit now, of letting time get away from him. Minutes seemed like hours and hours passed like seconds. It was mental, time. Never there when you need it, and always around just when you wish it would pass.

Sometimes he wished he could just sleep the rest of his life away. The endless empty years he had before him slipping past without his notice.

He wished he could give the years away, to someone who wanted them, someone who needed a bit more time. George had no use for it, what good was time when your heart was dead and buried in the garden?

But he couldn't sleep. His dreams were … torturous, so he found it best to stay awake as long as possible. But he was so bloody tired …

He had read once, about a famous wizard who had worked himself to death, forgoing sleep for weeks until his body finally gave up and kicked the cauldron. That sounded like a fine way to go for George.

Turned out it wasn't quite as easy as it sounded, though. George tried to stay awake but sometimes it just became too much and his body took what it needed without his leave.

He looked down at the bottle. Drinking didn't help with that, either. But it took away the memories and the dreams, drowning out the constant voice inside his head finishing his thoughts for him.

An even trade, he supposed. Sobriety for sanity.

He turned away from the door, leaning against it and sliding to the floor, his bottle held tight against him. He looked down at it lazily.

Firewhiskey. He let his head fall back against the door with a hollow thud. What was he thinking, bringing that here?

Merlin knew she wouldn't want it, after last night.

He squeezed his eyes shut, searching for a memory that wasn't there. He opened his eyes, unscrewing the bottle top and throwing it back.

What was he _doing_?

She was Fred's girl, it didn't matter what she said. And here George was, bothering her. Fred would have his guts for garters, he would.

Fred had had a lot of girls, but Angelina was different. She was the first, and the only one who'd kept a bit of his slippery heart.

George knew that better than anyone. He was Fred's secret-keeper, after all. He knew all about the regret and guilt Fred had felt for the way things had ended between them. How he'd wanted her back, but had known that he wasn't any good for her. George knew.

So why was he here, then?

Tears ran down his face, wetting the neck of his tee shirt. Why was _he _here, instead of Fred? Fred would've come back to her, if it'd been George that died.

George knew. He _knew_ what Fred would've done. But he didn't know … he didn't know what _he_ was supposed to do.

His hands were shaking too badly to hold the bottle, so he set it down on her doorstep.

He tapped it with his wand, conjuring a big pink bow to wrap around the neck.

He sat there for a while, pressing back against the door like he might fall through if he only tried hard enough. He imagined that he could feel her presence, her warmth and laughter, seeping out from underneath the door.

A clock chimed from within someone else's flat. It was later than he had realized. How long had he been waiting outside of her door like some kind of pervert?

He stood slowly, lifting his fingers to run lightly over the buzzer, not using enough pressure to trigger it, just wanting to feel the possibility beneath his hands.

He wandered out of the building, walking aimlessly down the quiet little street. There was simply nowhere he wanted to go. The entire bloody world was empty, now. Not a decent spot on the place.

Nowhere to escape to, nowhere to hide.

He stopped suddenly, knowing where he had to go, where he had been heading all along. He turned and disapparated, landing in his mother's garden.

He sprawled out beside his brother, looking up at the stars.

He didn't speak aloud. Didn't need to, Fred always knew what he was thinking.

Even dead and buried under a garden of knickers, he knew.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	22. Chapter 22 Ruined

**I don't own Harry Potter and I am not J.K. Rowling.**

**A huge thank you to Urbanmama who Beta'd this chapter for me, she's amazing!**

**Thanks for reading, and special thanks to those who reviewed!**

**The first half is Georgelina, but don't worry, the last half is all Romione.  
**

* * *

Angelina opened her door, nearly tripping over something on her doorstep. Something … absurdly pink. She bent down to pick it up. A bottle of Firewhiskey, tied with an enormous pink bow.

George.

She looked down the corridor but there was not even a shadow of his presence. When had he been here, and why hadn't he rung for her? She had been home all evening, not exactly … waiting for him, but not exactly doing anything else, either.

He had been here but hadn't wanted to see her. Her heart sank a bit in her chest. Of course he wouldn't want to see her. He was probably embarrassed, after what might have happened the night before.

She smiled to herself, hefting the bottle in her hands as she went back into her flat. It took real talent to embarrass a Weasley twin.

And Angelina knew she was exceptionally talented in that regard. She remembered that time after Quidditch practice when she'd made Fred blush so hard she'd been afraid his skin would never regain a normal color. Why, he had even stammered a bit, making her heart …

Fred.

She sat in her favorite chair, setting the bottle down on the table.

Well, there it was, wasn't it? The heart of the matter. She had already chosen Fred, and George knew that. So he had left the bottle without saying hello.

It was terribly simple, really.

She went to the kitchen and grabbed three shot glasses, returning to sit on the floor before the coffee table. She poured a shot in each glass, lining them up neatly on the table.

"Well, boys, here we are again."

She lifted the first glass, letting the edge of it just barely kiss her lips before pulling away.

"Here's to Fred."

She took the shot, letting the golden liquid burn its way through her body like a cleansing fire. Tears welled in her eyes and she let them fall.

She picked up the second glass.

"Here's to George."

She threw back the glass, this time welcoming the edge of pain that came with it.

She looked at the third glass, turning it in her hand.

"And here's to me, not making a further muck of things."

She drank this one slowly, tasting the salt of her tears mixed in with the sweet liquid.

She looked at the clock; it wasn't even noon yet, and she was getting wasted on her living room floor.

Fred would've been proud.

…

George found himself standing outside of her flat once again, eyeing the buzzer. He had left the house right after lunch, his feet carrying him straight to her door. He lifted his hand and pressed once, briefly, half hoping that she wouldn't have heard it.

To his surprise, she opened the door immediately, blinking up at him with vaguely unfocused eyes.

"S'about time you got here. I've been waiting for you."

She turned away and walked unsteadily to the couch, flopping herself down with abandon.

George shut the door behind him, walking slowly to the couch to look down at her. It was half past noon, and by the looks of things, she was already piss drunk.

Her head rolled slowly to look up at him.

"Why are you always so tall?"

George grinned, shrugging helplessly.

"Dunno. S'just part of my charm, I suppose."

She blinked slowly, her lovely brown eyes hazy on his face.

"Sit down then, S'bloody hard to look at you."

George sat close beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders and grinning down at her.

"Well look at you, Miss Johnson. Barely lunchtime and you're pissed as a piper."

She nodded jerkily.

"Yeah. S'all your fault, y'know."

George pretended surprise.

"Is it, now?"

She nodded again, her head rolling against his arm as she turned to look at him. George swallowed as he resisted the pull of her brown eyes. He could smell her, sitting this close. Her clean hair and sweet skin, with a generous touch of Firewhiskey.

Some of the clouds across her eyes seemed to drift away as she looked up at him.

"Why d'int you come in? Las' night, when you brought the Furwissy, the Firewhistle, the F- the booze."

He shrugged, a little bubble of laughter rising in his throat as he watched her struggle with words. She was an adorable drunk.

He looked away, noticing three glasses on the table next to the bottle. She'd made a good dent in it already.

His pink ribbon had been removed from the bottle and tied haphazardly around a leg of the table. He pulled his arm from around her shoulders, allowing Angelina to sink slowly sideways while he picked up the glasses.

He threw a smirk at her as he stood to take them into her little kitchen.

"Havin' a party, were you?"

She nodded, half slipping between the cushions of her couch as she melted slowly downward.

"S'right, with a right handsome pair of fellows, too. Gits though, despite their looks."

George froze, the glasses clenched tightly in his hands. He had assumed that she had been drinking by herself, though why he would make that assumption was beyond him. She must have scores of blokes looking to chat her up with a drink.

He struggled to maintain his casual air.

"Anyone I'd know?"

She nodded, only half on the couch now, her legs spilling down onto the floor.

"Yeah, guess you could say that. S'was jus' you an' me an' Fred, actually."

George released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Drink you under the table, did we? Who held his liquor best, me or Fred?"

"Fred. Always."

He nodded, going into her kitchen and putting the glasses in her empty sink.

"Say Ange, you haven't eaten anything today, have you?"

She didn't answer, but he heard a muffled thud which he assumed was her falling completely from the couch.

No wonder she was so pissed, then. He opened her icebox, locating a bit of ham and cheese. A further search of the kitchen revealed a loaf of bread, and he made her a sandwich, taking a bit of cheese for himself.

He carried it in to her, nearly tripping as she reached out and grabbed his ankle just as he rounded the couch.

"Don' go yet."

He sat down on the floor, setting her sandwich on the table. She was looking up at him with wet brown eyes, her dark eyelashes clumped together. There were shiny tear tracks running down her cheeks. He leaned down, hauling her up until she was sitting with her back against the couch.

"There we are, love. 'M not goin' anywhere until you eat something."

He pressed the sandwich into her hands. She stared at it for a few seconds before chomping it with such enthusiasm that George had to laugh.

There was much to be said for a girl with an appetite.

He put his arm around her to keep her from sliding to the floor as she polished off the rest of her sandwich. She leaned her head against his shoulder after she had finished, heaving a deep sigh.

He ran his hand across her face, feeling her tears wet the skin of his neck. He pulled away, looking down at her.

"Here now, what's this? Bored you to tears, have I?"

She hiccoughed, shaking her head.

He stood, lifting her back onto the couch. She seemed slightly steadier now, able to sit up on her own.

He sat close beside her anyway, just in case.

"So this party … it was just you and me and Fred, right?"

She nodded.

"And no one got naked!? I'm a bit concerned. That really doesn't sound like us."

She smiled, her eyes clearer now as they looked up at him.

"Have I ever told you George, how wonderful you are sometimes?"

His heart tripped in his chest, caught by the unexpected compliment. He shook himself. She was drunk, after all. It didn't mean anything.

"Afraid I didn't hear you. You might have to repeat yourself a few times, maybe put it in writing."

She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder.

…

Ron was confused.

A fairly typical state of things, to be sure, but no less uncomfortable.

He was tired, to start with. Hermione had never come to bed last night, and he hadn't been able to sleep without her. The nightmares had come back again, gnawing on the edges of his mind and making him toss and turn.

She'd looked bloody well rested, though. Fresh as a bloomin' daisy at breakfast.

And then she'd gone off somewhere with Ginny until lunch, where they had spent the entire meal with their heads together.

Harry was gone, off with Kingsley today. Percy and Charlie had disappeared again and George had left in the middle of lunch. So, left alone, Ron had helped his Mum in the kitchen before coming out here to mope on the porch.

He blamed Harry, for walking in on them. Bloody embarrassing, that was. Hermione was probably just avoiding him because of Harry.

But doubts wormed around in his head, eating away at his newfound confidence.

What if he had frightened her yesterday? With his … _enthusiasm_ for her. He'd really lost it for a moment. If Harry hadn't come in when he did, Ron didn't know if he would have been able to stop.

What if she was disgusted with him, or something? What if --

"Ron?"

He turned his head, standing immediately as he saw her. She was dressed rather casually today, in a loose yellow shirt and denim trousers. Heart-stoppingly lovely, as usual.

She swept past him, skipping down the steps.

"Come on, we're going for a walk."

He scrambled to follow, catching up with her in a few long strides. She didn't say anything, just kept walking purposefully in the direction of the pond.

He stared down at the top of her head. Her hair was pulled back today, wrestled into submission by a substantial looking hair tie. He liked it better loose and wild.

He shifted his gaze down to her hand. How many times had they walked together like this while he struggled to find the courage to take her hand in his? He had spent countless hours contemplating what her hand would feel like. Years, maybe.

He took a breath, grabbing her hand probably a bit more forcefully than he should have. He was a bit nervous.

She glanced up at him with an enigmatic expression before weaving her fingers with his.

Ron felt the earth tilt on its axis before pulling right again.

They were okay, then. He hadn't frightened her away and she wasn't too embarrassed to look at him.

He heaved a great sigh of relief, noticing for the first time that day just how lovely it was outside. The sun misted down through a thin veil of clouds, a soft breeze curled around his skin. He looked back down at the top of her head. Lovely.

They walked together in companionable silence even as she led him into the woods that surrounded the pond, Hermione daintily picking her way through the underbrush as he followed her deeper into the trees.

He reached out to push a branch out of her way, realizing where she was headed.

There was a clearing, just past this next row of trees. All of the Weasley children knew about it, but how did Hermione …?

She stepped out into the clearing, pulling out her wand and muttering a few spells as she walked around the jagged perimeter.

Ron walked to the center of the clearing and sat, wondering what she was doing, exactly. It was a bit cooler here in the clearing than it had been outside. Less breezy, but mostly shaded by trees.

He watched her walk around, pulling bits of tree out of her hair. The sunlight filtered through the leaves dappled her skin and hair so that she looked … unreal. To beautiful to be real, even.

She sat across from him, her wand tucked in her pocket.

"We need to talk."

Ron's stomach sank ominously. This was bad. It was always bad when they "needed to talk," wasn't it? That was like the first thing he'd learned about girls, really basic stuff.

She was watching him with guarded eyes, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"Tell me about your rules, Ron."

"Hmm?"

He was really hoping that she wasn't talking about what he thought she was talking about.

"Rules, Ronald. Ginny's already told me all about it so you may as well stop pretending you don't know what I'm talking about."

Bollocks.

"Right. Um, so you mean me an' Harry's rules, then?"

She nodded succinctly.

Obviously this was a punishment or something, making him talk to her about something this bloody embarrassing. And he had had such high hopes when he realized they were headed for the clearing …

"Harry made them up, after I'd caught him an' Ginny."

Hermione raised one eyebrow.

"_Harry_ made them up? Really? That's not how Ginny tells it."

Ron shrugged. She watched him with narrowed eyes, but he wasn't going to say anything more. The less she knew about the whole business, the better, in his opinion.

"And why exactly didn't you tell me about them, when I told you my own rules?"

He shrugged again, a guilty flush creeping into his face.

She stood suddenly, pacing like she did when she was thinking about something. Which was approximately always.

She turned to him, her eyes lit with that compelling fire he sometimes saw burning in her gaze. His skin tingled with awareness. He knew that look, she wanted a row.

He stood to face her, waiting for her to spark the kindling piled between them. She didn't disappoint, stalking forward to poke him in the chest.

"You deceived me."

He shook his head, finally comfortable now that he knew the state of things. A row he could handle. Conversation … that was another story.

"I never did."

She jerked her head like she was trying to flip her hair, forgetting that it was pulled back.

"Well you certainly didn't give me full disclosure, as I did you!"

Ron shrugged, he felt like he simply hadn't told her anything she didn't need to know.

"And making all of these … rules, behind our backs like that! It's simply intolerable. Where did you and Harry get the ridiculous notion that you had any right to control our actions? Ginny and I are grown women, fully capable of looking out for ourselves and governing our own actions. "

Ron was getting irritated now.

Didn't she know that it was for their own good? Didn't she know how bleedin' hard it was for him to protect her from himself? He was tired of being attacked for doing something he felt was right, especially when it was turning out to be so bloody difficult.

He felt anger twine around his chest, realizing too late that this could turn into a genuine row.

"Yeah well, I didn't see you doing too much governing yesterday!"

He knew immediately that he'd said the wrong thing as the color was sucked out of her cheeks. He wanted desperately to snatch the words out of the air but the damage was done.

Her eyes flared up at him.

"Perhaps not, but I can assure that I will be far more _governing_ in future! And far _less_ accommodating!"

Ron winced; she was hitting him where it hurt. On the bright side, it looked like he had nothing to lose, now.

"We'll see about that, won't we? You like to act all prunes an' prisms, but it's just that, an _act_!"

"And you like to act like you're king of the castle, but you're really just a horse in the trough!"

Ron paused, trying to figure out what that had even meant. She continued on without him.

"Do you know what _really_ gets me, Ron? You spend years and years pretending I'm not a girl, and then as soon as you realize it, you start treating me like I'm weak and incompetent! It's stupid and ridiculous, and I'm sick of it!"

He looked down at her sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I always knew you were a girl, Hermione."

She scoffed loudly before lowering her voice in a truly terrible imitation of him.

"'Neville's right, Hermione, you _are_ a girl!' You're so very _keen_, Ron, finally spotting that very obvious fact in _fourth year_! And furthermore, you-"

Ron never knew what she would have said, because something inside him that had been there all along, through all of their rows, finally snapped.

His blood roared in his ears as he grabbed her roughly, crushing her lips beneath his. She fought him for a moment, struggling as his hands circled her wrists and pinned them behind her back, forcing her tight against him.

He softened the kiss, sliding his tongue along the tightly sealed seam of her lips in silent entreaty, coaxing her to open for him. She relaxed against him slightly, her wrists going limp in his grasp as she allowed him entrance with a quiet moan.

This was brilliant. This was how he should end all of their arguments! Ron wondered why he'd never tried this before. He'd thought of it, of course, but he'd never actually-

She slipped her wrists from his hands while he was distracted, pulling away and shoving him so hard that he fell straight on his bum, the air whooshing from his lungs.

"Merlin's arse, Hermione! What was that for!?"

She was staring down at him with wild eyes, her hair coming loose from its tie to curl boisterously about her face. She was breathing heavily, the effort doing magnificent things to her chest.

She advanced on him until she stood nearly on top of his splayed legs, the fire in her eyes flickering madly, her hands clenched into fists at her side.

"You don't get to make rules for _me_, I make rules for _you_! Do you understand?"

Ron sat very still, not even nodding. There it was, that bossy tone she got sometimes that never failed to make his trousers tighten. He loved and hated that tone.

"Do you _understand_, Ronald?"

That was it. She'd said his full name. Ron had reached a peak of anger and arousal that only Hermione at her bossiest could bring him to.

He swept out one leg, catching her behind the ankles and bringing her toppling down on him with a surprised "oof!" .

He caught her tight against him, her elbow catching him painfully in the stomach. He rolled them quickly, pinning her beneath him with both wrists held above her head by one hand.

He stared down into her flushed face. Her eyes were huge, her mouth thin with anger. Her hair had gotten loose and was obviously enjoying its freedom, spreading out across the grass in every direction. He could feel her heart thumping feverishly against his chest.

His voice lowered to a growl.

"I understand plenty, Hermione."

She blinked, apparently speechless.

"I understand that I have a right to protect what's mine."

He leaned in closer, until he could feel her uneven breath battering his face.

"An' that's you, incidentally."

She swallowed, opening her mouth to protest. He dipped his head and kissed her hard, effectively silencing her. He pulled away, slightly out of breath himself.

"I understand that you don't like it, but I don't bloody care."

She bucked against him, yanking at her wrists in an effort to free them, her breath hissing furiously from her lips. Ron held her down with surprisingly little effort, feeling a dark thrill run down his spine at the notion that she couldn't get away from him.

Her eyes had narrowed to slits, the fury in them tinged with frustration. She spoke through clenched teeth.

"Let me go."

Ron didn't even shake his head, he just stared down at her, letting his eyes do the talking.

She let out a little shriek, her body twisting and jerking in a frenzy of motion. Ron just pressed more firmly against her, letting her tire herself out. She finally fell limp, her breath rushing harshly from parted lips.

He kissed her softly on the forehead, earning a squeak of outrage. He looked down at her with serious eyes, the question that had been plaguing him all day finally emerging from his lips.

"I missed you last night. Why didn't you come to bed?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Maybe I didn't relish the thought of sleeping next to a lying, scheming, condescending git for another night! "

Ron felt a familiar prick to his confidence, but struggled to ignore it.

"Maybe." He swallowed thickly, gathering his courage. "But I think you were scared."

She scoffed loudly, jerking at her wrists again. Ron gave her a quelling look.

"Stop that, you'll hurt yourself."

She growled fiercely, her head surging forward suddenly to bite him hard on the shoulder. His grip loosened just enough for her to free her hands, raining a fury of slapping, punching, shoving indignation down on him.

He rolled off of her, covering his head with his arms. She followed, smacking every available inch of him until he finally shot his hands out to grab her wrists again.

"Enough, Hermione."

She wrenched her hands away, scrabbling backwards like a crab until she was several feet away from him. She pulled her knees against her chest, wrapping her arms around them tightly. Her eyes stared at him accusingly over her trembling lower lip.

Ron felt a rush of self-loathing. He must have hurt her accidentally, if she was close to tears. He should have just walked away until his anger had cooled, he should have-

"You can't do that."

He looked at her in surprise, sitting up cautiously.

"You can't, you simply can't _do_ that, Ron. It isn't fair."

Tears started leaking from her eyes to spill down her cheeks, each one a dagger in his chest. Her voice trembled slightly.

"I had a _plan_, and you ruined it! Just like you ruin everything!"

He flinched, looking away from her, unable to face her righteous anger.

…wait a tick…

"A plan? A plan for _what_, exactly?"

This time she looked away, wiping her face. She seemed to gather herself, looking back at him with eyes glinting with steely determination.

"A plan to teach you a lesson. To show you that you can't control me. You have _no right_ to control me, Ron!"

He picked up a piece of grass, chewing it idly as he watched her.

"Alright, let's see it then. You have a plan, don't you? So get on with it."

She jerked her head, throwing her hair over her shoulder as she stood to pace in front of him, her arms crossed tightly.

"Well it won't be terribly effective _now_, will it? Not now that you know about it."

He shrugged, spitting out the grass and leaning back on his elbows as he stretched his long legs out in front of him.

"S'pose not."

She stopped to glare at him. After a tense moment she sighed and plopped down across from him on the grass, her hair falling about her shoulders in a huff.

She picked up a wildflower and began systematically stripping it of its petals.

"Well, I can only hope that Ginny is more successful in her endeavors."

Ron felt a grin work its way across his face.

"D'you mean that Ginny has somethin' planned in store for Harry?"

She nodded, ripping out a petal with obvious relish.

"In that case, I'll wish her all the bloody luck in the world!"

Hermione looked up at him with narrowed eyes; her fingers paused in the act of removing another petal.

"I wouldn't be quite so smug if I were you. Perhaps this is part of my plan, to get your guard down so that I can strike when you least expect."

Ron raised his eyebrows.

"_Is_ it part of your plan?"

Hermione resumed pulling out petals, nearing the end of her supply.

"No. But it easily _could_ have been."

Ron watched her for a moment, surprising himself with his next words.

"Hermione … we need to talk."

She dropped the flower, the surprise in her eyes mirroring what he felt himself. He sighed, sitting up straighter and scooting closer to her, stopping within arm's reach.

"If there is something … bothering you, then you just need to tell me straight out. None of this ridiculous 'plan' rubbish."

She nodded slowly, something beginning to glow softly in the backs of her eyes like fairylights. Ron looked down at his fingers, pulling blades of grass out of the ground.

"Look, it's not like I'm trying to control you, exactly. It's just that if I don't have some kind of … boundaries for myself when it comes to you then I'm afraid I might …"

He chanced looking up at her. Her eyes were glued to him now, her lips slightly parted. He wished they looked a little less appetizing. She was driving him mad. His body was still crackling with awareness from their row.

She leaned in toward him, her voice soft and low.

"You might what?"

He shrugged self-consciously

"I dunno. Hurt you or … something."

She shook her head, her hand reaching out to take his.

"You won't."

He looked at her with desperate eyes, all of his fears rising to the surface like sharks circling the water.

"You don't know that, Herm-"

Her hand tightened on his, her voice fierce.

"You won't."

He fell forward into her eyes, awed into silence by the love and trust he felt brimming over to spill across his heart.

He kissed her gently, feeling her fingers slide from his grasp to wrap around his neck. She climbed into his lap, his arms coming around her automatically to pull her close against him.

She pulled back suddenly, her hands coming up to frame his face as she searched his eyes. She licked her lips, his eyes following the movement hungrily.

"I have a new rule, Ron."

Disappointment was a cold stone in his belly as he looked down at her, struggling to clear his head.

She leaned close, her warm breath burning against his lips as her eyes bore into his. His heart beat furiously against his ribs at the naked desire he saw written there.

Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her, feeling the words on his skin instead.

"No rules."

She pressed her soft lips against his, sending his mind into a dizzying spiral of lust and love and other more confusing emotions, all tangled up and tightening within his chest.

He nodded, bringing his hand up to cup the back of her head, moaning as she opened for him eagerly, their tongues sliding together with electrifying effects on his body.

She pushed him back into the grass, her hair falling around their faces as she kissed him hungrily, something building steadily in the air around them, making him gasp for breath.

No rules, she'd said. Ron thought he could probably live with that.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	23. Chapter 23 Birds

**I am not J.K. Rowling and I do not own even a tiny bit of Harry Potter.**

**This is kind of a short fluffy chapter, but I will be moving things along in the next one.**

**Thanks for reading, and thank you thank you to those of you who reviewed, you guys rule!**

* * *

Hermione made her way through the house in careful silence, closing the back door with the merest whisper of sound and immediately heading upstairs.

She pulled bits of grass and things from her hair as she climbed the stairs, marveling at the sheer quantity of forest she had managed to incorporate into her coif. An entire family of birds could happily make a nest from the the pile of twigs she had collected.

Depositing her collection in the nearest rubbish bin, she slipped into Ginny's room, closing the door silently behind her and leaning against it, her eyes shut tight with relief.

She had made it, and no one had seen her. She looked down her front, where one hand held the torn edges of her blouse closed.

Poor Ron. He was probably still apologizing, with no one to hear him but the trees. She had instructed him to wait a few minutes before following her to the house. There was no reason to make certain aspects of their relationship any more obvious than they already were.

She rummaged in the drawer Ginny had lent her in the dresser, putting her hands on the hem of her blouse in preparation of pulling it over her head. She froze as she heard an odd sort of sound behind her, whirling with wand pointed.

At Harry… tied to Ginny's bed…with bright orange stockings.

His green eyes were huge and pleading as he stared up at her, his lips sealed shut with some sort of sticking charm. She turned back to the dresser, grabbing a loose jumper and pulling it over her head to cover herself properly before using her wand to release Harry's lips.

He looked up at her gratefully, stretching his jaw and smacking his lips a few times.

"Thanks Hermione. A little more help, if you please?"

Hermione nodded, untying the stockings from around his wrists and moving to sit across from him on her cot as he sat up and stretched.

He offered a sheepish smile, idly rubbing the skin of his wrists.

Hermione arched her eyebrows in a way that very clearly asked "Why on earth were you tied to Ginny's bed with a pair of horrid orange stockings?". She had always prided herself on having rather articulate eyebrows.

Harry shrugged, glancing at the door.

"We had a bit of a row. I'm afraid Ginny didn't like what I had to say."

Hermione nodded, gesturing at her face.

"Well that explains the lip-lock charm."

He nodded, contorting his face into an assortment of amusing expressions as he attempted to regain feeling in his lips.

Hermione crossed her legs, swinging her foot in the air as she waited for him to elaborate. He just continued to invent rather unflattering expressions for his face until she finally broke the silence.

"So where is she now? Ginny, I mean."

He shrugged, his shoulders slumping as he looked at the closed door.

"I dunno. She said she didn't want to see me again until I had joined the 20th century."

"I see. She confronted you about the rules, then."

Harry looked up at her in surprise, his face finally settling on one expression.

"Ron told you?"

She nodded regally.

"Of course. Ron knows better than to keep secrets from me."

Harry didn't need to know that Ginny had been the one to tell her. Hermione liked to maintain the illusion that she was in total control of her relationship with Ron.

Harry looked at her oddly.

"Oh. So … where is he now?"

She cracked a smile, picking up one of Ginny's long orange stockings and throwing it at Harry's head.

"Well I haven't left him tied to a tree, if that's what you're asking."

He caught the stocking, running it slowly through his hands.

"No. You wouldn't. That's more Ginny's thing."

Hermione rather thought she heard a tone of … pride in his voice.

He held out his hand.

"Accio Wand!"

Harry's wand came flying in through the window to land softly in his grasp. He turned it over in his hands as he looked at Hermione, a grin tugging at the edges of his lips.

"Said I was lucky she didn't break it in half."

Hermione nodded, marveling at the lengths the ginger witch would go to in order to get her own way in things. She leaned her chin in her hand, balancing her elbow on her crossed knee.

"So I take it you did not agree to disregard your ridiculous rules?"

He shook his head, a serious edge creeping into his eyes.

"No. I gave Ron my word."

She nodded again, her chin rolling in her hand.

Harry sighed, his eyes holding fast to hers.

"I've been meaning to talk to you actually, to apologize for … well."

She sat up straight, her face growing hot as she remembered. She had been so afraid to see Harry again, but then after finding him like that … she had simply forgotten to be embarrassed.

She made an odd fluttering gesture with her hands.

"Oh, well, there's really no need to-"

"Yes. There is. I shouldn't have … I should have just gone back downstairs and left you to it, frankly."

Hermione nodded stiffly, her skin itching with discomfort. Harry's cheeks were turning pink, but he held her gaze steadily.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, I never meant to embarrass you."

She nodded again, harder this time in the hopes that they would be done with this now and moving on to other things.

He pushed his glasses further up his nose, his hand skimming over his scar briefly before running through his hair. She stifled a giggle as it remained standing on end once he removed his hand.

He fiddled with his wand, looking down at the floor before bringing his eyes back to hers.

"Hermione … do you think you could … talk to Ginny for me? Maybe you could explain to her that it really isn't about what _I_ want, it's about …"

"Honor?"

He looked out the window at the darkening sky.

"Something like that."

He stood, stretching his arms over his head and cracking his neck. Hermione watched him silently. He smiled at her, tucking his wand into his trousers.

"I'm sure you'll think of something far better than I could ever muddle up on my own. Just … try to make her understand, will you?"

Hermione crossed her arms.

"Perhaps _I_ don't understand, Harry."

He paused mid stretch, staring down at her in dawning disbelief.

"Oh no. Not you as well!?"

Hermione stood, poking him with her finger.

"What I _do_ understand is that you and Ron have all of us tangled up in your ridiculous rules in some sadly misguided attempt to keep everyone under control. Under _your _control. You should be aware that I won't stand for it any more than Ginny will."

Harry stared at her for a moment, both of his hands tugging at his dark unruly hair.

"Right, then."

He moved to walk past her but she stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

"I mean it Harry. You have no right to control either me or Ginny, and the sooner you realize it, the better for all of us."

He yanked his arm out of her hand, pacing back across the room before turning to face her, his eyes burning with determination.

"No. You don't understand, Hermione. Don't you realize-"

He broke off, his hands pulling his hair as he continued pacing.

"Don't you see, Hermione? There have been so many times … so _damned _many times when I couldn't-when there was nothing I-but now there's something. _This_ is something I can control. Something I can finally protect you from, after all these years of putting you in harm's way."

Hermione shook her head, extending her hand to touch his shoulder softly. His eyes were shuttered, the green depths hard as stone.

"No. Harry, you never put me-"

"Don't! Don't even say it, when we both know that you'd be lying your clever head off."

She moved to hug him, but he pushed her away with gentle hands on her shoulders.

He moved to the door, speaking with his back turned to her.

"I'll need to speak with you after supper. You and Ron both."

Hermione nodded, but he didn't see her as he escaped out into the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind him.

…

Ron clomped up the stairs, not bothering to muffle his footsteps. He wasn't the one who had to sneak in unseen, after all. That would be Hermione.

He looked down at his hands. Giant, clumsy hands far better suited to deflecting the Quaffle than romantic embraces.

It was all those bloody buttons. His nemesis. With their slippery round little bodies and stupid tiny holes. They must have been invented by a woman with small, nimble fingers.

He felt really bad about ruining her top like that. It hadn't been a particularly pretty top or anything, but he was fairly sure she had bought it new, and he had great respect for store-bought clothing.

She had laughed at the look of horror on his face as he stumbled over himself apologizing to her. Said it didn't matter, she didn't care.

He still wasn't quite sure if she _really _didn't care, or if that was girl-speak for "you'll pay for this later, you great clumsy wanker".

"Bloody stupid buttons."

"What was that?"

He looked up at Harry in surprise.

"Oh. Nothing."

Harry nodded, his hair standing up in all directions. He glanced over his shoulder.

"I think I know how you felt, mate, when Hermione set those canaries on you."

Ron nodded dumbly, not really following.

Harry raised his hands to his head in a bizarre circling gesture that made him look completely mental.

"All those little birds pecking at your head."

Ron nodded again as Harry walked past him down the stairs, disappearing around the bend. Poor bloke. It looked like the strain of planning the memorial was really getting to him.

Ron continued up the stairs to his room with a shrug.

Pecking birds? Mental.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	24. Chapter 24 Unbearable Weight

**I am not J.K. Rowling and I do not own any part of the Harry Potter universe.**

**Thank you for your patience! And thank you to everyone who reviewed, I do appreciate it!**

**This one's a little heavy. There's some adult language, so no kiddies. **

**Thanks for reading!  
**

* * *

Harry pressed back against the faded wall of the stairwell to allow an exhausted looking Percy to pass by him. Charlie followed close behind, forced to turn his perspiration-soaked shoulders sideways to fit through. They were each carrying something in their hands, oddly shaped and wrapped in dirty canvas.

Harry felt a familiar niggling of curiosity and resolved to locate his invisibility cloak. That particular pair of Weasleys had been acting rather strange of late. Even Ron had noticed, and it was extremely difficult to get him to notice anything beyond Hermione these days.

He walked through the kitchen, pausing to receive a kiss on the cheek from Mrs. Weasley as she cleaned the dishes from supper with a busily waving wand.

"Have you seen Ron or Hermione?"

She shook her head, her attention already turned back to the sink, where soapy brushes performed an intricate choreography of cleanliness.

"I'm afraid not, dear. Why don't you check outside?"

Harry nodded his thanks and moved to do just that, pausing outside the kitchen door as he caught sight of George walking back from the garden.

He was … smiling. Like a Weasley twin. Like George.

He raised a careless hand as he loped up the porch stairs.

" 'Lo Harry!"

Harry waved distractedly, watching George whistle his way into the kitchen to twirl his Mum into an impromptu waltz. Harry continued on down the steps, Mrs. Weasley's surprised laughter echoing behind him.

He heard a distant splash and decided to check the pond, proceeding carefully as he had grown wary of catching his friends in yet another awkward moment. He found them at the edge of the water, immensely grateful that they were sitting a handspan away from each other.

"No, no. You've got it all wrong, Hermione. It's all in the wrist, like this."

Ron threw a stone which attempted to skim the surface but only managed a stuttering skip before surrendering with a wet plunk. Hermione gasped like she had just personally received a signed copy of _Hogwarts, A History_.

"Ron, that was wonderful! "

Harry stepped forward, sitting down on the other side of Ron.

"Yeah mate, amazing. I think you've got a promising future in stone-skipping."

Ron elbowed him in the side, a faint blush running across his cheeks as he cast a sideways glance at Hermione.

Hermione sent a glare in Harry's direction, scooting a little closer to Ron and putting a hand on his knee. Harry rolled his eyes as Ron's faint blush exploded into a deep shade of pink which clashed brilliantly with his hair.

Harry picked up a stone; throwing it as hard as he could and watching it sink into the water. Ron grinned with triumph.

"Well at least I'm a good bit better than you, Harry! Your stone sunk like a bloody gargoyle!"

Harry shrugged, wrapping his arms around his knees as he turned to look at his friends.

"Kingsley needs you tomorrow. Both of you."

Ron leaned back on his elbows, causing Hermione to half tumble into his lap. She straightened immediately, narrowing her eyes at her boyfriend as he tossed a lopsided smirk her way before returning his attention to Harry.

"Wha' for?"

Hermione's voice rang out clearly over Ron's mumbling.

"Yes Harry, what precisely does Kingsley need us to do? I haven't prepared, and if there is some kind of problem I will certainly need all of the time I can manage to research properly and-"

Harry shook his head, smiling as Hermione wound herself up.

"No, no. Nothing like that. He just needs us for rehearsals at Hogwarts tomorrow. They're putting the reconstruction on hold for a day."

She nodded, her spine slowly relaxing from its strict upright position. Ron worried his lip, watching Harry.

"What 'zactly does he expect us to do for it?"

Harry shrugged again.

"I don't know. He didn't say. I expect we'll find out tomorrow."

Ron nodded, flopping back to lay flat on the ground, stretching his long arms over his head, the too short sleeves of his shirt riding up to his elbows.

Harry lay down beside him, their heads nearly touching as they looked up at the stars. He heaved a great sigh. Ron turned his head to look at him.

"You alright, Harry?"

Harry almost nodded as an automatic response, but instead did nothing. He wanted to reassure his friend, but at the same time he didn't want to lie. His experience with Dumbledore had left him a bit sour on the topic of deception and half-truths. He had resolved to live the rest of his life in total honesty whenever possible.

Ron leaned up on one elbow, looking back over his shoulder at Hermione before staring down at Harry in concern.

"Wha's wrong, mate?"

Hermione crawled around Ron to lay on her stomach, her head inches from Harry's. He said nothing, and after a few moments he felt her hand sweep gently across his forehead, pushing his dark hair away from the tiny and yet infinitely huge scar that marked his life.

He shook his head, making the hair fall back into his face. He could feel them watching him, could just imagine the conversation they held with their eyes over his head. He sat up abruptly, removing his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt.

"Kingsley wants me to … to give a speech. At the Memorial. He says that it will be … expected of me."

Hermione curled up close beside him, her arm around his waist. She looked back over his shoulder and he could practically hear her eyebrows shouting at poor Ron. Ron sat down at Harry's other side, a bit further away than Hermione but close enough to touch. He rested his chin on one bent knee as they looked out over the water.

"An' you don't want to."

Harry nodded, even though it hadn't really been a question. He put his glasses back on, resisting the urge to lean into Hermione, to accept her unconditional support.

"No. I don't want to. I –to be honest, I don't know if I can."

Hermione's head moved briskly against his shoulder.

"Nonsense. Of course you can. I'll help you write it."

Harry almost smiled at the thought of her laboring over a length of parchment for him, as she had done in those school days that seemed so far away from them now. More than one lifetime away.

"I just, I just don't know if I can talk about … them. About everyone who … Kingsley expects me to just get up there and say something profound, something meaningful and hopeful and respectful and uplifting and I don't think I can do it."

Ron had grown very still beside him, his silence roaring in Harry's ears far louder than Hermione's tutting. He turned his head away, leaving Harry staring at a tangled mess of red hair.

"They want you to … to talk about Fred?"

Harry nodded even though Ron couldn't see him.

"Yes. Fred and everyone else who … gave their lives for me."

Ron remained perfectly still, every heartbeat of silence stabbing fresh pain into Harry's weary soul. The weight of guilt he bore was too heavy for one man. Each day it felt as if just one more ounce of guilt would cause him to collapse in on himself, unable to bear the strain. Unable to bear the knowledge that he had put that shadow in Mrs. Weasley's eyes, that pallor in Ginny's face. The knowledge that he had stolen the irrepressible smile from George's face, the easy humor from Ron's voice.

Ron rubbed his face roughly against his shoulder and Harry realized that he must be crying. Hot tears of shame and grief and guilt began to pool behind Harry's glasses, spilling out to roll down his cheeks into Hermione's hair. She pulled away from him to look between the two boys, obviously torn in deciding who needed her the most. Harry jerked his head in Ron's direction, noting her look of relief as she went to him, leaning against his back and wrapping her arms about his chest.

Harry half expected Ron to push her away, but he was surprised as Ron placed one large hand over both of hers, holding them against his heart. Harry felt suddenly uncomfortable, as though he were intruding on something private, something … sacred.

He started to get up but Ron's head lifted suddenly to spear him with wet blue eyes.

"No. Stay."

Harry nodded, sitting back down beside his friends. Ron sniffed loudly, dragging his sleeve across his face before turning back to Harry, his red rimmed eyes hard with determination.

"You can do it, Harry. I'll help you."

Harry felt his mouth drop open with shock. Whatever he had expected Ron to say, this had not been it.

Ron gave an awkward shrug, Hermione moving up and down with his shoulder.

"I mean, if you want me to. I know I'm rubbish at … stuff."

Harry's lips curved into a semblance of a smile as Ron reverted back to being Ron. He looked over Ron's shoulder at Hermione, who was watching him quietly, her head resting against Ron's back.

"If I do this … I'll need both of you to help me."

They nodded in perfect synchronization, causing the semblance of Harry's smile to grow into a real one.

Ha lay back down into the grass, grinning as his friends moved to lie beside him, their heads forming a lopsided triangle. Hermione reached for his hand, squeezing tightly. Harry looked to see that she was also holding Ron's. They watched the stars twinkle in silent companionship, their hearts speaking louder than words, echoing across the still night.

…

Percy dumped his burden onto his bed, stepping aside to allow Charlie to do the same. Muttering a quick silencing charm, he locked the door and collapsed into his desk chair.

Charlie sat down heavily on the floor, leaning his bulky frame against Percy's bed. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a heavily scarred arm. Percy found himself staring at the scars. They were all marked in some way, his siblings.

Tom Riddle had left scars on his baby sister's soul, Greyback had torn Bill's handsome face, Charlie's work had left his skin layered with burns, little Ron had faced countless dangers, seeming to come away with fresh scars every time, and George … George was scarred more than any of them. The jagged hole left on the side of his face was nothing compared to the deep wounds that marked his heart. The scars Percy saw dulling the light in his eyes.

Only Percy was left … unmarked. Free of physical reminders of his pain. He almost wanted to cut into his own skin, just to have something to show. Something real, something he could share with his brothers. He stirred from his dark reverie as Charlie sighed.

"Reckon we're done with it, then?"

Percy shook his head, slumping in his chair.

"Not quite yet. I would like to be … entirely certain that everything is perfect before we show him."

Charlie nodded, his thick eyebrows coming together as a light of concern glimmered in his eyes.

"You alright, Perce?"

Percy debated several answers to the query. He could confess all, reveal the depth of his secret pain. He could flatly deny the notion that something was amiss. He could …

"I'm not sure."

Percy felt as surprised as Charlie looked. His mouth had formed the words before his mind had given permission. It had defied protocol.

Charlie made an awkward gesture with his hand.

"D'you want to … talk about it or somethin'?"

Percy shook his head even as his mouth opened to reply.

"Yes."

Now Charlie looked perplexed. He tilted his head to the side in a gesture that reminded Percy of their baby brother.

"You mean … with me? You want to talk about it with me?"

Percy nodded slowly.

"If you don't mind."

A little smile tugged at the corner of Charlie's lips, making him look suddenly younger.

"Well isn't that somethin'?"

Percy raised one eyebrow.

"What are you talking about?"

Charlie cracked his neck, relaxing back against the bed.

"You've never wanted to talk t'me. Not once in your whole ruddy life."

Percy sat up straight.

"That is not true. I-well, I've certainly been speaking with you recently, haven't I? We've held many discussions over our … project."

Charlie nodded, scratching the thick layer of stubble on his chin.

"Yeah well, but you needed me, din't you? Needed a strong arm and a broad back for liftin' an' carryin'. Couldn't ask Ron, could you? Not after what he's been through."

Percy nodded, his heart folding in on itself painfully.

"I can see how you might feel that way. Please forget that I said anything."

Charlie leaned forward, buffeting Percy's knee with one calloused hand.

"Never said I din't want to talk t'you. Just surprised, is all."

Percy sat very still, afraid to disturb the moment of connection. Charlie's eyes bore into his.

"S'about Fred, isn't it?"

Percy nodded slightly, his head feeling stiff on his neck.  
Something was clawing against the backs of his eyes, something huge and terrible.

Charlie looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

"We weren't here when they needed us, were we, Perce?"

Percy shook his head, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. Charlie continued on, staring at the wall above Percy's head.

"Told me to stay away, they did. Needed someone in Romania recruiting foreign wizards to the cause. I was relieved, to tell the truth. Din't want to leave my dragons."

He suddenly looked into Percy's eyes.

"An' we all know what a twat you were bein' at the time."

Percy nodded.

"To say that I was a twat would be quite an understatement, actually."

Charlie's face cracked into a surprised grin.

"You've changed since I've been gone, haven't you?"

Percy clasped his hands in his lap, looking down at them.

"I suppose that we all have, in some manner or other."

Charlie nodded.

"Yeah. I can't believe Ronnie, actually. He's gotten so big, and so serious. An' I think he's bloody in love with that Granger girl. Really in love, nothin' like what any of us tossers had at his age."

Percy nodded vaguely, thinking of Penelope. It had certainly felt like love at the time …

"An' George. He isn't … the same, anymore."

Percy shook his head, bringing himself back to the conversation.

"No. He isn't. I don't think … I don't believe that he ever will be, Charlie."

Charlie held his gaze, his blue eyes heavy on Percy's.

"You blame yourself, don't you?"

Percy swallowed. His voice grew rough, having to travel past the sharp edged lump in his throat.

"Yes. I was-I was there, you know, when it happened."

Charlie nodded, his hands clenching into fists.

"Tell me."

Percy looked out the small window above his bed.

"We were … fighting together. Side by side. I was so afraid, but also unbelievably … happy. They had simply … taken me back, you see. After all that I had done. I-well you know how Fred is" He paused to take a shaky breath. " Was. He was always the first to forgive."

Percy felt tears slip past his defenses, burning down his face.

"I-it was my fault. I distracted him at a crucial moment and he … he never saw it coming."

Charlie looked up at him, his severe eyes suspiciously wet.

"It wasn't your fault, Percy."

"_Yes it was_! You weren't there!"

Charlie flinched and looked away as Percy raised his voice, shouting his pain.

"I made some … stupid joke about resigning and he … and he …"

He stopped, simply unable to continue as deep, painful sobs tore at his chest. He covered his face with his hands, pulling his hair painfully. He wanted the pain, he deserved far worse. He felt Charlie's hand on his shoulder and he shoved it away angrily.

His voice croaked in choking gasps as he impatiently wiped his eyes.

"It-should-have-been-_me_!"

Charlie shook his head, his face wet with tears.

"No. Percy, no."

Percy stared into his brother's eyes, feeling naked, exposed. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

"_Yes_. It would have been … so much better that way. For everyone. You could have all continued on your way with a quiet nod in my direction. It wouldn't be … it wouldn't be like _this_."

Charlie shook his head sadly.

"I was wrong. You're still a twat."

Percy was shocked into silence, staring at his brother with eyes wide behind his spectacles. Charlie stood, making an angry gesture with his arm.

"D'you honestly believe that it would be better for me to lose one brother over the other!? And here I had always thought that you were the smart one. You- the truth is, Perce, if you had been the one to … go, then Fred would be sitting here, right where you are now, telling me how it was all his fault. Acting like a complete twat."

Percy started to shake his head, but Charlie grabbed his jaw roughly, his blunt fingers digging into his face.

"That's the fucking truth, Percy. It wouldn't be _better_. It would just be … differently horrible."

Percy stared at him silently for a moment before clearing his throat.

"I question the grammatical accuracy of that statement."

Charlie's eyes widened before he choked out a surprised laugh, releasing Percy's jaw.

He stood in front of Percy's chair for the space of a few heartbeats before pulling him into his arms, crushing his face against his shoulder.

Percy stiffened awkwardly, completely unused to the … emotional gratification of such a physical expression of affection. No one had ever held him like this except his mother. He felt some of the bars around his heart melt away like icicles in the sun. Charlie held him firmly, ignoring his stiff discomfort.

"It wasn't your fault, Percy. You just … you have to stop this."

Percy said nothing, his heart filling his throat and making it impossible to speak.

Charlie pulled away, bumping his fist hard against Percy's shoulder as though a show of violence might balance out the tenderness of the moment. Percy staggered under the impact, the two of them staring at each other in silence for a moment before he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Well. I suppose that we should take care of all this."

He gestured to the collection of items piled on his bed. Charlie nodded, stepping forward to busily sort through the jumbled pile. Percy watched him for a moment, feeling an unfamiliar … lightness in the region of his chest.

He pulled himself together sternly and moved to assist his brother, pushing back the sound of Charlie's voice which echoed relentlessly in his head.

_It wasn't his fault …_

_

* * *

_**Thanks for reviewing!**_  
_


	25. Chapter 25 Knowing

**I do not own Harry Potter, and I'm not J.K. Rowling.**

**Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed!  
**

* * *

The atmosphere at Hogwarts was one of nervous trepidation as the key players assembled in the newly restored Great Hall. People milled about the place, uncertain where to go or when they would be needed.

Ginny took hold of Harry's arm and hauled him across the Hall to where Luna stood waving madly beside a sober looking Neville.

"Hi Luna!"

Luna offered an absent smile, her large eyes skimming over their faces.

"Hello Ginny, Harry. Did you eat breakfast today? Daddy always stresses the importance of a complete breakfast in staving off nargle infestations."

Harry nodded, struggling to look interested when his gut was twisting with dread. He had been avoiding Kingsley since they had arrived a few minutes ago. He was less than eager to discuss the looming prospect of making his grand speech, something he knew that Kingsley was keen to have finalized.

He smiled at Neville, ruthlessly suppressing a wave of queasiness.

"Morning, Neville."

Neville crossed his arms, looking decidedly less than happy to see his friends.

"Morning."

Harry's smile faded as he realized that this was the full extent of conversation Neville intended to have with him. Was there something wrong? Had Harry done something to offend him somehow? Everything had seemed fine when last they had spoken. Maybe Neville was just nervous, he wasn't exactly the type to enjoy the spotlight, after all.

Luna and Ginny were deep in a discussion of gown fittings, leaving Harry to stand awkwardly beside a disinterested Neville. He shifted from one foot to the other, playing idly with his wand.

He grinned with relief as Hermione bustled over to them, pulling Ron by his hand. Her hair was already starting to escape its plait and curl around her face in little clouds of frizz. Ron's hair was still wet, and looked as though it had been forcibly combed. Ron's face transformed once he noticed his friends, a broad smile breaking like sunlight.

" 'Lo there Harry, Neville!"

Harry braced himself against a friendly slap on the back and Neville grunted, his eyes looking away from them, searching the Hall for … something. Ron looked at Harry with eyebrows raised, tilting his head in Neville's direction. Harry shrugged helplessly, for once he was just as clueless as Ron.

Hermione joined in the female conversation and Ron and Harry looked around, scanning the group for friendly faces. Harry caught sight of Kingsley headed toward him and resisted the urge to duck behind Ron. Instead, he squared his shoulders and walked away from his friends, to find a secluded spot to conduct this conversation.

…

Ron watched Harry leave, confused at his abrupt departure until he saw Kingsley headed in the same direction. He looked over to where Hermione stood a few feet away, gesticulating wildly as she described some sort of torturous sounding footwear. Luna and Ginny nodded fervently. They were still talking about clothing. Yuck.

He turned to Neville. The larger boy stood with his back half turned, his arms crossed tightly. If Ron hadn't known better he would have said that Neville was cross at him. He walked up to him, giving a light punch in the arm.

"Hey Neville! What've you been up to? Just standin' around with Loony all morning?"

Neville gave him a hard look.

"Don't call her that."

Ron nodded, he had forgotten that she didn't like the nickname. He didn't see any harm in it, frankly.

"Alright."

Neville turned his back, taking a few steps away. Ron was starting to get annoyed. It was one thing for Hermione to act that way, she was a bloody girl. It was quite another for a bloke to blow him off like that rather than to have it out like men.

He walked up to where Neville stood apart from everyone else.

"Oi, Neville."

Neville looked at him with a completely neutral expression. Ron held his arms out in appeal.

"Are you cheesed off at me or somethin'? Look, if I've done somethin' to piss you off, you're just gonna have to tell me, mate. I'll never figure it out."

Neville's face changed, twisting with anger.

"No. You won't, will you? The thing is-"

He ran a hand through his hair roughly in a gesture that reminded Ron of Harry.

"The really infuriating thing is, is that you already _know_. All of you. And you're just too … too _self absorbed_ to worry yourselves over it!"

Ron lowered his arms, taken by surprise. There really was something bothering Neville.

"What're you talking about? Who is all of you?"

Neville jerked his head angrily, crossing his arms again.

"You. Harry. Hermione. You _know_. And you've never once bothered to …"

He shook his head, looking about as frustrated as Ron was confused.

"Bothered to what? What do you think we know, 'zactly?"

Neville sighed, looking over his shoulder to where the girls stood talking.

"I can't tell you."

Ron puckered his brow in bewilderment.

"Why not?"

Neville lifted one shoulder helplessly.

"I gave my word."

Ron stared up at him for a few silent moments, noting how serious Neville's eyes had become. Whatever it was that was bothering him, it was something he considered very important.

"Right. Well, could you give me a hint, at least?"

Neville looked away for a few seconds before turning his gaze back to Ron's, a new light in his eyes.

"Yes, I-I think I can do that."

Ron nodded impatiently.

"Well go ahead then."

Neville closed his eyes, holding a fist to his lips for a moment before leaning in to speak quietly, once again glancing over his shoulder.

"It's an issue that is … very close to home for you. "

Ron raised his eyebrows.

"I'm afraid you'll have to try harder than that, mate. I'm not Hermione."

Neville nodded, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face.

"Okay. Well, by "home" I mean the Burrow."

Ron nodded slowly.

"Something close to the Burrow … can you give me anything else?"

Neville leaned back in.

"You _know_ what I'm talking about Ron, just-just tell Hermione what I've told you, she'll work it out soon enough. I can't, I just can't tell you anymore, I promised her I-"

His eyes widened and he straightened up quickly, looking surprised at himself. He started to walk away but Ron caught up to him, grabbing his arm.

"Her? Who's 'her'?"

Neville wrenched his arm away, looking angry once again, obviously frustrated by Ron's failure to comprehend his cryptic message.

"Who do you _think_?"

Ron let him go this time, walking back to stand beside Hermione, nodding absently when she seemed to address him, his mind working over Neville's words.

…

The rest of the day was spent in bursts of dizzying activity interspersed with long stretches of boredom. Everyone was instructed on where to go and when to go there and why. Hermione had taken several feet of notes just in case they forgot any of the details.

Harry's speech was the second item on the agenda, right after Kingsley's. He really did not enjoy the idea of immediately following the rather commanding figure of the Minister. After Harry there were to be a few more speakers, Professor McGonagall among them, and then the awards ceremony.

Following the awards was a light feast and a dance. Harry really didn't think that anyone would feel like dancing at that point, but no one had asked his opinion on that bit of things. He looked up at the walls, which had been covered in swaths of dark cloth from the ceiling until about midway down. Kingsley had said that whatever the cloth was hiding was not to be revealed until the Memorial.

A blur of motion caught his eye and he saw Neville off to the side, having a rather animated discussion with Professor Sprout. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong between him and Neville, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine what.

He turned as a gentle hand touched his shoulder, smiling with relief when it was just Ginny. He had had more than enough fawning gratitude for one day. For one lifetime, actually, but he knew that this was just a tiny taste of what he could expect at the Memorial Ball.

"Ready to leave, Harry?"

Harry was already walking, his hand on his pouch of Floo powder. Ginny hurried to keep up, walking by his side.

"You have no idea, Ginny. Where are Ron and Hermione?"

She shrugged carelessly.

"Dunno. I think they've already left."

Harry took her hand and hurried to do the same.

…

Hermione watched Ron out of the corner of her eye as they wandered the corridors hand in hand.

"Shouldn't we be getting back, Ron? You know we are supposed to be at your house for supper."

Ron nodded absently, turning his head to check yet another empty classroom for whatever it was he was searching for. Hermione grew weary of wondering.

"What are you looking for, Ron?"

He jerked his head forward, staring straight down the corridor while a pink flush crept up from the collar of his shirt.

"Nothin'."

She raised a disbelieving brow.

"Really? Then why have you been looking in every classroom we come across?"

He shrugged, pulling his hand from hers to rub the back of his neck.

"I was jus', I dunno, looking for a place to sit or something."

Hermione stopped and crossed her arms suspiciously, fully aware that he was attempting to keep something from her.

"And just why, precisely, were the chairs in the Great Hall insufficient for that purpose?"

He shrugged noncommittally, continuing on without her to check the rest of the rooms. Hermione watched him until he disappeared behind a bulky suit of armor.

"Ron?"

No answer. She felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she was engulfed in irrational fear.

"Ron, where are you?"

She started forward, breaking into a run as she sped down the corridor. Her heart jumped into her throat as she was grabbed by a strong pair of arms, a broad hand muffling her scream of surprise.

She relaxed immediately, recognizing the hand across her face. Smiling mischievously, she stuck out her tongue and licked his palm, causing him to pull it away with a shout of disgust.

"Hermione! That's disgusting!"

She grinned at him, following as he sunk deeper into the shadows cast by the suit of armor.

"You deserve far worse, after scaring me like that. Honestly, Ron, what were you thinking?"

He leaned back against the stone wall, his eyes obscured by shadow as he looked down at her, his hand coming up to stroke the side of her face.

"I was thinking the same thing I've been thinking for ages when we've been alone like this in the corridors."

Hermione swallowed, stepping closer until her shirt brushed the front of his.

"And what is that, exactly?"

She sensed rather than saw his grin.

"Jus' how bloody nice it would be to pull you off into the corner an' snog your head off."

"Mm. That sounds like a worthy thought indeed."

She lifted on her toes to meet him as he ducked his head, pressing their lips together softly. The sounds of activity in the Great Hall were almost too faint to hear from this distance.

Hermione realized that he must have been searching for a deserted bit of corridor for exactly this purpose. That thought, the thought that he had _planned_ this, sent a flood of warmth throughout her body, all the way down into her toes which were now curling with pleasure as he deepened the kiss.

She squeezed his shoulders with her hands, trying to gain leverage and balance up on her toes, every cell in her body straining to be closer to him. He mumbled something and turned them so that the cold stone wall was at her back, his long body pressing her into the stone. She nibbled his neck in encouragement, dipping her tongue beneath the edge of his collar to taste the soft patch of skin she found there.

He shifted against her, one of his thighs sliding between hers until his knee touched the wall. She gasped, squeezing her thighs around him at the delicious pressure. He pulled his head back slightly to grin down at her.

"Like that, do you?"

She debated nodding but decided instead to rock herself against his leg, holding his gaze and biting her lip in that way that always made his ears glow stoplight red. He made an odd sort of choking sound, swooping in to kiss her hard, leaving them both breathless and aching.

She yanked his shirt out of his trousers, running her hands up the warm skin of his back, digging her nails in as he pressed against her harder, lifting his knee. She distracted him with a searing kiss as she entwined her fingers with one of the hands he held at her waist, slowly bringing it up to cup her breast. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, moaning softly as he rubbed his hand against her. He dragged his mouth across her jaw to worship her throat, whispering into her skin.

" 'ermione… you're killin' me."

She smiled broadly, pulling his head back up by his hair.

"Good."

He ran his hands down her sides, pausing to knead her hips before hooking his fingers beneath her legs and hauling them up around his hips, pinning her against the wall. He smiled a bit sheepishly, reddening at her raised eyebrows.

"My neck was gonna break, bendin' down like that."

She nodded sagely, attacking his mouth with fresh ferocity, their tongues battling for dominance as they pressed their bodies as tightly together as possible. She heard soft mewling noises and, blushing, realized that they were coming from her.

"Well of course this was inevitable."

They both jumped at the sound of Luna's voice, Ron lowering her legs and stepping away to peer around the suit of armor. Hermione checked the state of her clothing and moved to do the same, finding herself face to face with a grinning Luna and a very red-faced Neville. She stepped out in front of Ron, smoothing her hair self-consciously as she walked closer to where Luna stood waiting.

"I'm sorry Luna, did you say something?"

Luna nodded.

"Inevitable: fated, occurring as a natural consequence. "

Hermione looked at Neville for clarification, but he just shrugged apologetically, grabbing Luna's hand and tugging her away.

"Come on Luna, I'll take you home."

She followed him sedately, only walking for a few steps before breaking into a jubilant skip. Neville walked beside her at a brisk pace, his shoulders pulled up until they were nearly level with his glowing ears.

Ron cocked his head to the side as he watched their friends' retreat.

"What is he, her handler now?"

Hermione looked up at him for a silent moment before sighing and patting him pityingly on the head, as one might do a particularly simple child. She bit her lip, taking in his bewildered expression. Or dog.

She started walking back down the corridor, hearing the soles of Ron's worn trainers slapping the stone a pace behind her. He wrapped his hand around her arm just before she turned the last corner, pulling her back against his chest. She tilted her head back until her crown rested against his collarbone and she could see his eyes looking down at her.

"Yes, Ron?"

He bent forward to press a quick upside-down kiss against her lips.

"Jus' that, an' I have something to tell you about Neville."

She turned around, feeling her insides dance at his brief kiss.

"Now that is interesting, because I also have something to tell you about Neville."

"Alright then, you go first."

"No, you go first, you brought it up."

"Yeah, but _my_ bit doesn't make any bloody sense and _your _bit is probably already worked out an' everything an'-"

She flapped her hand in his face impatiently.

"Enough. I was just going to tell you that Neville isn't Luna's handler, he's her …"

She trailed off as she realized that she didn't really know how to describe their relationship. Luna had been pretty clear on the point that Neville wasn't her boyfriend and-

"Her what? Her trainer, her gardener, her bloody dance teacher?"

"He's her lover."

Ron's mouth dropped open like his jaw had been tied to a hundred pound weight.

"You mean Neville, Neville Longbottom Neville?"

She nodded.

"But that's-that's not, he's not, I mean they aren't … you're sure?"

She nodded again, watching as a wide smirk bloomed across his face.

"Well your bit was certainly better'n mine, jus' wait until I tell George, he'll flip his-"

Hermione slapped a hand to his mouth, drawing her eyebrows down menacingly.

"You aren't going to tell anyone. I only told you so that you wouldn't start speculating with Harry."

Ron groaned against her hand.

"Oov ot tuh be kihdig meh"

She shook her head, keeping her hand firmly against his mouth.

"I am certainly not kidding. And you are certainly not telling. Do you understand, Ronald?"

He nodded reluctantly, looking rather like he had just been denied a treat.

She removed her hand, nodding firmly.

"Good. Now what was it that you wanted to tell me?"

He scratched his head, contributing to the ruffled mess she had left his hair in.

"Well actually, _your_ bit helps _my_ bit make a bit more sense I think."

She blinked in confusion. There had been one too many "bits" in that sentence, she was sure. He continued on, oblivious to her bafflement.

"At least, I think I've figured out who Neville's "her" is. And … actually, Hermione, can I wait an' tell this to Harry too? All at once I mean?"

She blew out a loud breath of consternation, turning on her heel and reaching for her Floo powder. She didn't bother to look over her shoulder; she could feel him following her.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	26. Chapter 26 Invasion

**I am not the amazing J.K. Rowling, and I do not own even the merest crumb of the Harry Potter universe.**

**Thank you so much for the amazing reviews, I'm exceedingly glad that you enjoy reading my little story! **

**A/N : I know it's hard to keep track, but the Ball is two days away at this point. Just fyi.**

**

* * *

**

* * *

Neville woke in a panic, Luna's hand clamped across his mouth as she looked at down him through glossy eyes wide with alarm.

She was naked, sitting on his stomach, the hand not pressed to his lips wrapped tightly around her wand. She glanced over her shoulder to her window before looking back down at him. She leaned in close, whispering softly in his ear.

"We're being invaded."

Neville sat up immediately, lifting Luna from his lap and depositing her gently but quickly on the floor behind her bed. He grabbed his wand, rolling to the floor himself and attempting to gather his trousers in one hand while casting a protective spell on the room. He turned to Luna as he stood, pulling his trousers over his hips, his voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

"How many are there?"

She shook her head, looking small and frightened.

"I-I don't know. Too many."

He nodded sharply, throwing her dress at her as he fruitlessly searched the floor for his discarded shirt. His mind began clicking things into place and he issued quiet orders as he cobbled together a plan.

"Stay down. I'll distract them while you apparate for help."

She shook her head slowly.

"That won't work, Neville."

He rounded on her, panic giving his words a sharpened edge.

"It has to work. I won't let … they can't take you again."

She cocked her head slightly, sitting naked on the floor with her dress held loosely in her hands.

"They aren't Death Eaters, Neville."

He stopped, his heart flopping madly around like a fish without water, completely flabbergasted. If it wasn't … but she had said …

"Not Death Eaters?"

She shook her head again.

"Worse. Weasleys."

He stared at her in a daze of complete and utter incomprehension. Weasleys? They were being invaded by … Weasleys? He released his breath loudly. This was one of Luna's little … things, then.

She had woken him before with bizarre pronouncements of questionable truths that could have easily waited for morning, but none of them had ever been quite this … distressing.

He ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head rapidly as he fought to control the anger that was suddenly coursing through him like white water rapids. Merlin, she had scared him.

For a crystal clear moment he had believed that she was in danger of another kidnapping, or torture, or worse from a group of evil wizards. He had been the only obstacle preventing that from happening. And he had known what he had to do.

This last year … it had changed him. In times of great stress he no longer panicked. His mind sharpened, focusing on the most important goal and how best to achieve it.

Moments ago that goal had been Luna's safety, but now…? He looked at her, feeling his face turn scarlet with fury. Now he wanted to grab her with both hands and shake some sense into her.

He turned away from her and stalked to the window, looking out in exasperation, not really expecting to see anything. He leaned out, immediately pulling away in horror, flattening himself against the wall as he looked at Luna over her bed with eyes white-rimmed in panic.

"I-it's Weasleys. A-all of them, I think."

She nodded morosely, pulling her dress over her head as casually as though she were getting dressed for school. She looked up at him as she pulled her long wavy hair out of her collar.

"Horrible, isn't it?"

He nodded, his mind doing backflips of panic.

She walked over to the window as if he were not plastered to the wall, obviously pretending they weren't there. To his amazement, she even leaned out and waved before popping back in to shrug at him.

"Oh well. I should have expected something extraordinary today."

She walked to her rumpled bed, sitting on the edge and swinging her legs. Neville watched her in patent disbelief.

"I think that you will probably wish to put your clothes back on, don't you?"

He didn't even nod, just dove to the ground to sort out his shirt and socks, giving up on his underpants as they were not to be found. Luna had a habit of … borrowing things, sometimes. They'd always show up eventually, folded and tucked into his pack. He didn't mind.

He looked up to find her watching him, her luminous eyes serious and sad.

"You told them."

It wasn't a question. Neville swallowed, taking a moment to look for his shoes and try to form a convincing denial. He looked back up, and she hadn't moved.

"I- no, I didn't tell them."

She just kept looking at him, making his insides burn with guilt. He paced around the hole in her floor, the increasingly loud cacophony of Weasleys signaling their imminent invasion. He walked over to her, taking her hands in his.

"Luna. I-they already knew, didn't they? I just, I just told them to-to think a bit about what they knew. I never said your name or anything about your house. I swear it."

She tilted her head to the side, bringing her hand up to trace the features of his face, her eyes impossibly deep as they bore into his.

"You just can't help it, can you? Saving people."

He shrugged, pulling away as he heard Ron's voice calling for them.

…

Ron approached the crumbling house slowly. Merlin's Beard, it was almost completely destroyed. Looked like a Rook that had been taken in a particularly nasty game of wizard's chess.

Well at least Luna was with Neville, and not living up there in that …

She leaned out of the top window, waving madly at him.

Dragon's teeth! She was _living _up there! No bloody wonder Neville was so pissed at them!

Hermione stood at his side, her hands pressed to her mouth; he inched closer as he heard a muffled moan from her direction. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he tried to put an optimistic edge in his voice.

"S'alright, Hermione. My Dad an' everyone'll fix it up for her, you'll see. It'll be good as new in no time at all."

She lowered her hands, looking up at him with eyes wet with unshed tears.

"Oh Ron, we're horrible friends, aren't we? We just left her to live in that-that-"

She broke off and buried her face in Ron's shirt, leaving him to lock eyes with a very pale looking Harry.

He had forgotten to tell them until this morning, at breakfast. Hermione had figured it out right off, gasping with horror and rushing off to rally the troops. Bill and Fleur had been over for breakfast so they had the full brigade at their disposal.

He walked ahead with Harry, leaving Ginny and Hermione lagging behind with his family as he paused beside the ramshackle ladder leading up to Luna's bedroom window.

He cupped his hands to his mouth.

"Oi! Luna! Neville, you up there?"

Neville leaned out, looking a bit pale himself.

"We're here, back up a bit and I'll come down."

Ron took a few steps back and watched as Neville climbed down the ladder with practiced ease, holding his ground as his friend stomped over to glare at him.

Neville leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"Did you have to tell your whole bloody family, Ron? I could have done without having to face your mother this morning."

Ron shrugged helplessly.

"Afraid they're part of the package, mate. Eager to help, an' everything."

Neville turned away to catch Luna as she flitted down the ladder, leaping gleefully from about the fifth rung up.

"Good Morning Ron!"

He took another step back cautiously, coming up even with Harry.

"Good Morning, Luna. We've come to …er… help."

Ron finished lamely, feeling like a complete tit. He looked at Neville, who was watching his approaching family with wide eyes. He had been right, they had known all along that Luna's home had been destroyed, but they had … forgotten somehow.

Ron had been so wrapped up in his own grief, so consumed by the overwhelming emotions that had washed over him in the wake of the Battle. So completely immersed in … Hermione. She had simply taken up all of the space in his head, for weeks now. He felt awful about it.

Luna waved at his family, standing on her toes to see past Ron's shoulders.

"Hello Weasleys!"

She turned back to Ron, tilting her head so severely that she reminded him of an owl.

"It's lovely of your family to worry about me, but I won't be needing your help."

Ron looked at the house. An entire section had simply been scooped out of the cylindrical building, spilling out across the lawn in great piles of rubble. He opened his mouth to protest but saw Neville gesturing madly over Luna's head, shaking his head and waving his hands.

"Oh. Um … alright, Luna."

She smiled like he had just told her that her father had returned. Turning in a disconcertingly graceful pirouette, she skipped over a pile of stone and picked her way into the cavernous recesses of the building, Neville scrambling with considerably less grace to follow her.

"Luna! I've told you, you can't go in there, it isn't-"

Her voice rang out from somewhere inside.

"Nonsense. Everyone will be needing refreshments, Neville. It's only polite. I believe there is still some Gurdyroot in the kitchen, I'll just start on an infusion. "

Ron grimaced, recalling his last encounter with the noxious concoction. He stepped through the jagged piles of debris, leaning in to the dark gaping hole in the building and shouting.

"No! Oh no, no need for that, Luna. We've just come from breakfast, actually, so there's no need to fuss. Really."

"Ron! Harry! Come away from there, you two, I don't like the looks of that building at all!"

Ron pulled away from the building, making to follow Harry, but pausing to wait for Neville and Luna.

"Ronald!"

"But Mum, I-"

"No Buts! Now!"

Ron hunched his shoulders up, glaring at his brothers as they snickered at him from over their mother's head. He walked heavily back to where his family stood staring at the building.

"Oh Merlin! Luna Lovegood, you get out of there at once! You too, Neville Longbottom."

His Mum flapped her hands at his friends, taking a faltering step forward before covering her eyes as they picked their way expertly over to the waiting Weasleys.

Luna approached his mother, squeaking as she was pulled into a crushing embrace.

"Oh, you poor dear! There, there, don't fret. We'll take care of everything."

Luna was very still for a moment and then Ron saw her arms twine around his mother, her shoulders shaking violently. Neville took a step closer to her, glaring at Ron like it was all his fault.

His Dad mumbled something to Percy and the two of them set out to circle the building, his Dad gesturing occasionally as Percy took furious notes with a small pad and quill he had tucked in his jacket.

Luna pulled away, her face wet with tears and her protuberant eyes appearing impossibly large beneath their glossy coat. She blinked up at his Mum, who was a bit teary eyed herself.

"My mother smelled like peppermint."

His Mum pulled Luna back into another hug, rocking back and forth as she began weeping in earnest. Ron edged away to stand with Harry and Hermione, who had their heads together in that way that meant they were planning something.

They stopped when he approached, Harry breaking away to have a word with Neville and Hermione waiting for Ron. She had that hummingbird look about her, the one that came over her when she was eager to get started on a task. Practically vibrating in place, she was. She gestured impatiently with her wand as he stood before her.

"You are to go with Bill and Charlie."

Ron put his hands in his pockets, a bit miffed that they had finished the plan without him.

"M'kay. What for?"

She sighed as though it should be perfectly obvious.

"The three of you make up the lifting team, moving the larger stones out of our way and then replacing them when we're ready."

Ron nodded. That made sense, he supposed.

"Alright. So what are you an' Harry doing, then?"

Hermione ticked off items with her wand on her fingers.

"Harry, George, and Neville are reinforcing the foundation and preparing the building for repairs. Ginny, Fleur, Luna, your mother and I will be sorting out Luna's belongings and disposing of anything that cannot be repaired."

Ron nodded, glancing around before swooping down to steal a quick little kiss, walking away from his blushing girlfriend with a decided swagger in his step.

He came up to Bill and Charlie, who were busily talking Quidditch.

"-an' then I heard that they won't even be playing next season, they're takin' a season off after the war."

"Bloody nonsense, if you ask me. A decent game of Quidditch is just what people need right now."

"Bill."

His brother looked up, flicking his long hair away from his face. Ron thought it was incredibly irritating that his scars had only served to make him more appealing to women, as if Bill had ever been less than blessed in that arena.

"The two of you are with me. We're clearing the stones away so Harry n'them can start repairs."

Charlie sent a little grin to his fellow older brother before saluting Ron mockingly.

"Ay ay, Captain. Lead the way, young warrior!"

Ron rolled his eyes and stomped off toward the building. Merlin's pants, you fight in a bloody war and your older brothers still don't respect you. It was enough to drive a bloke barmy.

…

Luna wiped her brow, her arm coming away damp and streaked with dirt. They had been working for hours and her lawn was now visible beneath the neatly sorted piles of belongings. She watched Mrs. Weasley lovingly fold one of her robes, adding it to the pile of clothing worth saving.

These people … they were almost like friends.

Friends; Companions, neighbors, advocates. More than that, they were a family. And for this moment in her series of moments, she felt a part of that family. It was a beautiful feeling, like being dipped in warm chicken soup and wrapped in a blanket.

She had been … so afraid.

Afraid of anyone finding out. She had been afraid of losing her home, of losing everything she had left. Afraid that people would want to tear it all down and start over. She didn't want a new home. She wanted _her_ home, with the scorch marks on the ceiling from her mother's experiments and the gouges in the stone from her father's machinery.

She had thought that Neville understood that. But he had betrayed her.

Betrayal; no, that wasn't the right word at all. Was there a word for this? A word for loving someone so much that you trust them with every secret you hold close to your heart? A word for the moment they take that trust and move beyond it, to do something they feel you need? It was not a betrayal, precisely. It was something else entirely. She filed that thought into the back of her mind for further examination.

Her eyes followed Neville as he clambered around the gutted shell of her home, chanting spells and waving his wand with admirable efficiency. He had sacrificed so much, for so many. But he made a special sacrifice for her. He gave her more than his bravery, his loyalty and protection. He gave her the best pieces of himself, all of himself. Heart, body, and soul.

Love. It was a curious emotion.

She watched Hermione brusquely sorting through piles of her belongings, making quick repairs and hesitating before disposing of anything. She and Ronald Weasley were in love. Love for them was sometimes cruel and often loud and always overwhelmingly present. Luna's love felt very different from that.

Was she _in love_ with Neville? It hadn't seemed important, for her to know either way. She knew that she loved him, and simply had not felt any need to further categorize that feeling. The words had never been said, by either of them, but she recognized the light in his troubled eyes, the regard in his trembling fingertips. It was not an emotion to be defined by words. It was a cauldron filled with snippets of other emotions, stirred together in just the right way to form a potent potion. She felt herself reeling from the effects, her normally chaotic mind shaken into a frightening semblance of order.

He had done this for her. He had gathered the only group of people that he knew would respect her need for her original home to help with repairs. This was not betrayal.

This was love.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	27. Chapter 27 Blabbity Shabbity

**I'm not J.K. Rowling, and I don't own Harry Potter.**

**Sorry for the wait, things caught up with me IRL. **

**Pretty much entirely Georgelina, there is much angst in this one, and a scene that surely earns this fic its rating. No kiddies, please.**

**Thanks for reading, and special thanks to the people who reviewed!  
**

* * *

George ate his breakfast listlessly, the warm banter of his family washing over him in harsh, crashing waves, steadily eroding his carefully constructed facade of calm.

Tomorrow.

So soon. It seemed like mere minutes had passed, and yet it also seemed like years. Centuries. Millennia. Eons since he had last seen his smile, or heard his voice, or felt his hand against his shoulder.

He stared at his own hands, one wrapped loosely about his spoon and the other pressed flat against the table, the familiar worn wood like shards of glass beneath his fingertips. They had never prepared for this.

They weren't stupid; they had known all along that allying themselves with Harry meant risking death. It had been a risk they were more than willing to take. Added a bit of spice to the adventure, really.

But _this_. If he had known …

He shook his head like water had become trapped in his ears, dropping the spoon and lowering his hands to his lap.

Nothing would be different. If they had known that this might happen, they would still have joined the cause. They could do nothing else. Stand back like little Percy-princesses and let Ron hog all the glory? It was insupportable. Fred would have laughed at the notion, laughed like he had just spotted Snape dancing in a tutu.

George stood up quietly, making his way up the stairs to their-to _his_ room, shutting the door behind him.

This was hell. This was like sharing a bed with every dementor in Azkaban.

He stared at Fred's empty bed, his body shaking beyond his control. He took a few jerking steps forward before kneeling on the floor, burying his face in the tangled blankets. He blindly felt beneath them for a familiar shape, pulling the ragged toy close against his chest.

Blabbity Shabbity, Fred's deepest, darkest secret.

The stuffed rabbit was beyond all hope, the fur rubbed down to nothing, matted sticky patches alternating with expansive bald spots. Even the stuffing was stiff and lumpy, mangled by years of twisting hands and shameful tears and mindless chewing. Fred had taken him to school with them first year, despite George's teasing, hiding him in the bottom of his trunk, carefully wrapped in an ancient dishrag.

After a few years he progressed to charming the toy so that any prying eyes would see only an unabridged Rune dictionary. Blabbity Shabbity had remained visible to only he and George. George was unsure if the charm still remained after Fred … didn't.

Harsh dry spasms racked his chest, tiny wounded noises escaping his throat despite his best efforts to contain them. He kept the tears at bay, swallowing the endless sorrow back into his soul as he fought the uncontrollable storm that shook him like a ragdoll in the teeth of a dragon.

Three sharp knocks resounded against his door, shocking him into a tense silence. He stuffed Blabbity Shabbity back beneath Fred's blankets, pushing off from the bed to stand before the door.

Another knock, then a nearly audible hesitation before two more. He opened it slowly to reveal two Weasleys standing awkwardly side by side on the landing.

Percy and Charlie, as unusual a pairing as one could hope to find. Charlie looked nervous, his fingers picking at the thick skin of his elbow as he stood slightly behind a tense Percy. Percy looked beyond George's shoulder, his eyes landing on Fred's bed with a visible shock of pain. George stepped out, forcing them each back a step as he closed the door behind him.

That had always been _their _room, and now it was his and his alone. He found himself unwilling to share the little pieces of Fred that were scattered throughout the space, guarding each tiny treasure close to his heart. He assumed a carefully blank expression, leaning back against the door with forced casualness.

"Yeah?"

Percy cleared his throat, a dull mottled flush rising up from his neck to conquer his face.

"We-ah-we would very much like for you to come with us, if you- if that is not too much of an inconvenience."

George slid his eyes to Charlie, who was looking exceedingly guilty, avoiding his gaze.

"Wha' for?"

Percy swallowed , his adam's apple bobbing hysterically.

"I, well, it's a surprise, actually."

George nodded slowly, searching himself for any kind of reaction. It was just … he didn't care. He could not conceive of any surprise that might evoke a reaction from him. It was like he was encased in thick and murky ice, the sounds and sights of the outside world strangely muffled, far removed from his existence. Everything was unimportant, irrelevant.

He pushed away from the door, walking down the stairs with his hands in his pockets as he tossed a careless remark over his shoulder.

"Alright, then. Let's see it."

Percy's steps were unusually disorganized as he hurried to keep up with George, Charlie tromping loudly behind.

They caught up with him on the lawn, as he stopped and turned to face the house. Percy faltered for a moment before reaching out and grasping his arm firmly, just above the elbow. George looked down at his brother's hand. The long pale fingers wrapped around his arm were all wrong. They were smooth and white, unblemished by freckles or countless tiny scars as an inevitable result of years of ill-considered experimentation. He dragged his eyes back up to Percy's face, raising one eyebrow in silent inquiry.

Percy glanced over his shoulder at Charlie, who stepped forward to grasp George's other arm, so he felt a bit like a mental patient being dragged to St. Mungo's. Percy looked back at him, something like fear flickering behind his spectacles.

"We'd like to Side-along you, so it will be a true surprise."

George shrugged awkwardly, his brothers' hands weighing down his arms.

"Fair enough. Now get on with it, will you? I've got an entire stack of '_WetnWild Witches'_ to get back to."

Percy flushed and stammered, shoving his spectacles back up his nose with his free hand while Charlie chuckled softly. Then they looked at each other over George's head, some mysterious signal traveling between them.

Suddenly his stomach was left behind as he hurtled through space, feeling as if he had been drawn through the eye of a needle. They landed with a thud onto dirty cobblestones, jarring George's ankles and leaving him feeling distinctly queasy. He shook his head ruefully as Charlie and Percy released his arms, Charlie holding his head and Percy gagging loudly. Pfft. Amateurs. Didn't they understand that one of the most basic principles of side-along apparition was …

His eyes traveled up from his feet to a set of brightly colored steps, the paint fresh and practically sparkling in the morning light. The face of the building was spotless, the windows gleaming like brightly lit torches, flawlessly framed by brand new shutters.

Their sign glowed with garish colors overhead, proudly proclaiming '_Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, a family operation_'.

Now he was the one gagging, brought to his knees by the brute force of his grief. He felt someone's hands on his shoulders and he shoved them away, stumbling up the steps and ripping open the door.

Endless rows of perfectly organized shelves and meticulously crafted displays greeted him cheerfully, blatantly mocking his pain.

He was literally nauseous with agony. This was … he hadn't thought that it could get any worse, but _this_ … He locked eyes with himself in the oversized portrait of he and Fred that greeted the customers with a wink and cheerfully waving hands. He heard footsteps behind him and whirled madly, nearly tripping over his own feet as the world spun around him.

Percy stood in the open doorway, Charlie peering over his shoulder. George lifted a shaking hand to point at them, backing away until he ran up against the spotless countertop.

"Y-y-y-you! You did this!"

Percy nodded jerkily, walking toward him slowly with palms out like George was a high-strung hippogriff or something.

"Yes. We did. I-I knew how hard it would be for you to continue on, and when I saw the state of things, I knew we had to repair it for you, to-to make things just a little bit easier."

George shook his head, his hair flying into his face.

"No. No, you know _nothing_!"

He drew his wand from his back pocket, aiming it over Percy's head at the portrait.

"_Expulso!_"

The painted image of the twins burst into dozens of flaming pieces, Charlie and Percy ducking to escape the smoldering debris.

He swung his wand to the side, knocking entire shelves of merchandise onto the previously gleaming floor. He started to set the displays on fire when a restraining hand wrapped about his wrist, drawing his furious gaze to Charlie's stark face.

"Stop it, George. This won't help anything."

George wrenched his arm away, scrambling backwards and wavering his wand between his two brothers with a trembling hand. Percy had gone parchment white, his eyes wide behind his spectacles, tears streaming unchecked down his pallid face. He was biting his lip so hard that a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin, the bright red obscene against his pale skin. Charlie looked bleak; his hands clenched into fists at his side and his stony face a boiling scarlet.

"Y'going to curse us then, George?"

George shook his head frantically, blinded by tears and hanks of hair.

Charlie relaxed slightly, stepping closer to Percy while keeping his eyes on George.

"We were only trying to help. We jus' wanted to do what we could to-"

George's teeth were chattering, though it was more than sufficiently warm in the shop.

"g-g-getout."

Percy stepped forward, resisting Charlie's restraining hands.

"_Please_ George, if you would only let us-"

"GET OUT!"

George jerked his wand arm, sending the display to Percy's right crashing to the floor, the packages spilling open to release a flock of Wild Whirling Wands, the products gleefully flying through the air in every direction. With another flick he set off a pack of Wild-Fire Whiz-Bangs, the fireworks erupting in an angry shower of sparks and sound. He didn't even flinch, but seamlessly swung his arm around to explode a shelf of WonderWitch products, flooding the room with a pink cloud of sickly sweet scents.

Charlie and Percy started coughing deeply as they fell to the floor to escape the cloying smog. Charlie's voice cut through the chaos.

"George! Wait, just-"

George blasted the doors open with another harsh flick of his wand, pulling a vast quantity of the scent out into the street.

"GET _OUT_!"

Percy stood a bit unsteadily, pulling a resistant Charlie to the door. He looked over his shoulder at George, his eyes fathomless pits of anguish behind his hopelessly askew spectacles. With a jerk of his head, he turned swiftly and they disapparated with a loud pop.

He was alone.

He turned slowly, taking in the remains of their shop. The corpse of a dream.

He flicked his wand at the doors, shutting them loudly, the sound echoing through his chest, bouncing off the empty walls of his broken heart.

Something crunched beneath his boot and he stooped to pick up a chunk of the painting. A single eye, winking saucily up at him.

Fred. Oh, Fred.

He sank to the floor, clutching the fragment of his twin in clammy hands. His wand rolled unnoticed a few feet away, nestling beneath the counter.

The fireworks were still going off at random intervals, stinging his eyes with smoke and battering his ears with discordant shrieks and pops.

He crawled behind the counter, holding the fragment to his chest as he fought for breath. He felt a great swelling of something inside him, something monstrous and terrible and beyond his control. He curled up on his side, pressing his bony knees against the ache in his chest.

Under the cover of smoke and whistles and gleeful bangs, he let the tears fall. Though they did not so much fall as leap, running full tilt to get a head start before pouring down his face into his matted hair. His body jerked with painful sobs, battering his bones against the wooden floor. He screamed and raged, his wailing sorrow masked by chaos, the dams of normalcy he had built so carefully crumbling like tea cakes in the rain.

…

Angelina rushed through the warm drizzling rain, her heels slipping on the slimy cobblestones.

Merlin. Percy had looked terrible, like he had just fought another battle. Only this time, he had lost. He and Charlie had shown up on her doorstep, nearly banging her door down with urgency. Percy had been almost incoherent, just shaking his head and mumbling disjointed strings of phrases like:

"All my fault-I-I should have-I should have considered this contingency…"

Charlie had looked furious, the veins on his forehead throbbing with impotent rage.

"He _needs_ someone, he chucked us out, the little bastard, but maybe _you_ could… I mean, he's been goin' off with you an awful lot lately, and…"

She had flown out the door without grabbing an umbrella or even her handbag, her heart racing with fear and-and something else entirely.

What had they been thinking? They were his brothers, surely they had known better than to bring him back to the shop so soon after … and so close to that first morbid anniversary. They were wankers, the pair of them, for even putting him in that situation.

She slowed her approach as she was pelted by thick clouds of sulfurous, yet oddly floral smoke. She raised her thin knit top to cover her nose, squinting her eyes as she climbed the front steps to knock on the shop doors.

No answer.

The lights were off, but there was a distinct buzzing punctuated by occasional loud pops and shrieks coming from inside.

She gathered her courage, pushing open the door to walk straight into utter pandemonium.

"Buggering fuck!"

She flailed angrily as her hair was attacked by flying wands, tangling themselves up in the intricate braids.

"Is that the dulcet tones of Angelina Johnson I hear?"

She turned her head, careful to keep her arms raised in a protective shield around her hair. George was standing behind the counter, looking absolutely wrung out. His eyes were red and ringed with bruising. Thin white lines of pain creased the skin of his face, making him look far older than his years. He patted his pockets for a moment before muttering a mild curse and swinging his legs over the counter, dropping to the floor of the other side and getting down on his hands and knees to search for something.

Angelina took a few careful steps toward him, ducking the occasional wand and picking through smoking debris. She looked down as she made her way, surprised to find that she was stepping over … a hand? She bent to inspect it when George stood and sent the whirling wands all collapsing lifelessly to the floor with an expert flick of his wand. She looked up to find him watching her with haunted eyes. He looked away before tucking his wand in his pocket and pushing his hair back behind his ears in a gesture so familiar it made her heart ache. He gestured awkwardly with one arm.

"Afraid we're fresh out of our ladies' line. Couldn't keep up with demand, lazy sods that we are."

Angelina wrinkled her nose, taking a step closer but halting as he backed away like she was contagious, rushing to stand once again behind the counter. She waved her hands in front of her face, struggling for a teasing tone.

"What the bloody hell happened in here, Georgie? Smells like you've burnt down a bordello!"

He almost cracked a smile, the edges of his lips twitching for a blissful moment. Then his face hardened, appearing carved from alabaster.

"You should go."

She walked slowly to the counter, her heart throbbing painfully as he backed up until he hit the wall, his eyes widening as she continued to advance. He looked down at the floor, his chest heaving with barely suppressed emotion. She stopped as she reached the counter, placing her hand on the spotless surface in open invitation.

"I don't think so. I-George, I don't think you should be alone just now."

He looked up at her then, something dark and seething in his eyes. She could see quite clearly at this distance that he had been weeping, his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, his lips and nose bright pink in his otherwise colorless face. His voice was gravelly, ravaged by grief.

"You don't understand. Just _go_."

She hopped up onto the counter, swinging her legs around to face him. He flinched like she had raised a hand to strike him, his wet and matted hair falling into his face. She felt tears swell in her eyes and this time she let them fall, needing him to see that he wasn't alone in his grief. He watched the tears roll down her face with open fascination, his wounded eyes darting across hers.

"I'm not going anywhere."

That shuttered look returned, slamming across his face like a castle door. He stepped forward, grabbing her wrist in a painfully tight grip.

"Go on, get out of here."

He released her wrist to encircle her calves with his long fingers, throwing her legs to the side, back up onto the counter. She swung right back, drawing her eyebrows down like little stormclouds. He started to back away again but her hand shot out, tangling in his mess of vibrant hair, tugging him closer. His eyes were impossibly deep and dark, that dangerous look returning to captivate her once again as his nostrils flared with quivering breath.

She allowed her fingers to trail down the side of his face, stroking his tear-streaked cheek. He shut his eyes for a brief moment, seeming to gather himself before once again freezing her in place with his harrowing stare. She let her fingertips travel down to brush across his lips, feeling his sharp intake of breath rush across her skin. He grabbed her hand, pulling it away from his face.

"Don't."

She turned her hand in his to stroke her thumb across his skin, feeling him start to tremble in her grasp. His chest was jerking now with shuddering breath, his eyes growing increasingly damp. She felt her own eyes overflow with yet more tears, her lips trembling over a wobbly chin. She raised her other hand to rest against the side of his face, a tiny sob escaping her lips as he scrunched his eyes shut against the leaking tears and turned into her hand, his entire body beginning to quake.

She brought their entwined hands up to her lips, speaking into his skin.

"You're not alone."

To her shock, he ripped his hand away, staring at her like she had just slapped him across the face. He barked out a mirthless laugh, the sound falling like acid against her skin. His hands slapped against the countertop, framing her legs as he leaned in so close their shivering breath mingled together.

"You don't _understand_, Angel. I am _always_ alone."

She fought back the torrent of violent weeping that teetered at the edge of her control. Swallowing her good sense, she raised both hands to frame his face, stroking back into his hair, her left hand brushing against the angry nest of scars on the side of his head. She shook her own head slowly, struggling to breathe normally as she was swept away by the raging storm in his eyes.

"No, you're not. Not while I'm here with you."

He shut his eyes, releasing her from her trance while he bit off a curse, his breath coming now in great gulping sobs. She leaned forward, pressing her face into his neck as she gathered his bony frame tight against her body. He stiffened for a moment before relenting with a deep sigh, his arms coming around her like an iron vise, crushing her to him as the both wept noisily, their damp cheeks sticking together. After a few endless moments she wiped her face against his shirt, pulling back to find him watching her, his eyes flickering down to her lips.

Holding his gaze, she slowly parted her thighs, scooting closer to wrap her legs around him, toeing off her heels to fall behind the counter. He swallowed audibly, a deep flush spreading across his cheeks. He had to clear his throat before he could manage to speak, his voice deeper than normal, caressing her like crushed velvet.

"Is that an invitation?"

She declined to answer, instead leaning forward until his lips were a breath away, closing her eyes and waiting. She was almost as afraid that he would take her up on her offer as she was afraid that he would not.

They stayed that way for the space of a few tense seconds before his lips crashed down on hers, a moan ripped from deep in his throat. She pushed back, opening for him immediately, sucking hard on his questing tongue and wrapping her arms around his back, her fingers scrabbling at his shirt, trying desperately to tear it off of him. He pulled back just long enough to rip it off over his head before he was back, his mouth hot and silky and flavored with an intoxicating concoction of tears and need and _George_.

His talented hands were shoving her fitted skirt farther up her thighs until the fabric bunched around her waist, his fingers moving back down to knead her flesh as his thumbs drew slow circles up her inner thighs.

She whimpered as he brushed the damp edge of her knickers, her own hands shooting down to fumble at his belt, popping the row of metal buttons that fastened his trousers free with one forceful yank. He jerked and moaned as she filled her hands with his swollen flesh, stroking him through his pants.

To her surprise he pulled back, grabbing her hands and moving them away from his body, stepping back from her with his trousers falling from his hips and his body reaching hungrily for hers in obvious desire. There was something new in his eyes, floating above the storm of grief and rage and lust. Something raw and vulnerable, uncharacteristic uncertainty making his face appear younger than before.

…

George pulled away from her embrace, his cock absolutely screaming with protest, calling him all sorts of hurtful names, the least of which was fool. He searched her eyes, needing to know for sure …

"Angie."

Her eyes dropped to his lips before skimming down the front of his body, causing his disgruntled cock to leap with joy. She looked back up at him with rapt attention, desire swirling in the chocolate depths of her eyes, her thick eyelashes blinking hypnotically. He brought his stupid, shaky hands up to stroke the smooth lines of her throat, forcing himself to meet her eyes and not to look down at her soft thighs and damp knickers. Well, not to look down for longer than was strictly necessary, really. Which his cock assured him was a very long time. Wrenching his eyes back up to hers, to find a flicker of amusement burning there, he stiffened his resolve before wincing and deciding to use better phrasing next time. He was stiff enough, frankly.

"Angie, I'm not him."

There, a flash of pain in her eyes, as clear as day. She shut her eyes for a tense moment, his cock composing a truly moving lament in four stanzas while he waited. Then she opened them again, and the desire was inexplicably there, as strong as it was before. She leaned in to kiss his jaw all over, little frantic biting kisses that left his knees trembling and his cock composing sonnets of praise and devotion.

She moved up to whisper against his mouth, her full soft lips absolutely unfairly sexy beneath his.

"I know. I _know _that, George. It's just you and me, right here, right now."

Apparently that was all he needed to hear because suddenly rational thought was no longer an option.

The violent tide of rage overtook him once again, crested by frothy caps of lust and longing. This was … he couldn't …

He ravaged her mouth until her lips were bruised and swollen, only relenting for the space of time it took to pull her shirt off, leaving her sitting there in an inexplicable green plaid bra which clashed gleefully with her orange polka dotted knickers.

She gasped as he bent to take her breasts into his mouth, sucking feverishly at her flesh though the fabric of her bra before shoving the straps down her arms, exposing her and trapping her arms at her sides while he worshipped the dusky peaks of her nipples. She cursed loudly as he grazed one with his teeth, something savage rising in him, dissolving any semblance of gentleness or caution.

She grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking him back up to kiss him frantically, nearly choking him with her tongue while her hands grabbed bruising handfuls of his flesh, trying to bring him closer to her. He shoved his hands beneath her arse, ripping her knickers down and off before yanking her tight against him, the only barrier between them his rapidly dampening pants.

To his awe and amusement, she hooked her toes beneath his waistband and pushed the fabric down around his knees, never pausing the war they fought with lips and tongues and teeth.

His entire body shuddered as he felt the wet silken flesh between her legs brush against his eager cock. She whispered his name, bringing him back to himself long enough to curse loudly while he dropped to the floor and searched for his wand, pausing to stare at her exposed flesh before coming back up to steal another deep kiss, and then another, and one more.

Waving his wand in a pattern that had been drilled into him by his brothers, his muttered a contraceptive spell before dropping his wand to the floor, pulling her knees high on his hips as he hauled her body to the very edge of the counter, filling his mouth with the smooth skin of her throat as he pressed forward into her.

Fuck. It had been too long. Since before the war, actually. And it had never been quite like _this_. This was … something else entirely.

The tiny muscles deep inside her body clutched around him as he slid all the way to the end of her, a keening moan ripped from her throat. She latched her teeth onto his one remaining earlobe, causing his hips to buck hard against her, raising her body from the counter to slap back down as he pulled away again.

Oh shit, he was already starting to feel that familiar tingle at the base of his spine, signaling his eminent humiliation. He stilled, kissing her hard and taking her bottom lip between his teeth as he desperately reviewed Quidditch plays in his head. She whimpered and rotated her hips, urging him to move and making his eyes roll back.

He held her arse with one hand while he worked the other between their bodies, circling his fingers rapidly in a desperate attempt to bring her as close as he was. She cursed and bit and scratched, moaning loudly as he pumped himself slowly in and out of her, still fighting for control.

She was apparently not going to allow that, because she nipped at his chin, baring her teeth as she whispered harshly.

"_Hard_, George."

Sweet glittering fuck. He kept up the motion of his fingers as he slammed into her, the wet slap of their flesh overpowering the remaining sound of fireworks. They were both panting, grunting with effort as he lost himself in her perfect body. This was … there was nothing like it. His cock was about to explode, but more than that, something shifted deep inside him. Where he had been feeling so empty, like his soul had been scooped out with a gravedigger's shovel, now he was full to overflowing, feeling like his chest might split open from the pressure.

She dug her heels into his arse as she threw her head back with an impressive string of curses, her body clutching him in frantic little spasms, pushing him over the edge. He spilled himself into her with an uncoordinated jerking of his hips, her nails biting into his shoulders as he groaned into her hair.

They were very still for a few quiet moments after that, her hands still holding him tight against her and his face pressed into her neck, mortified to find tears flowing from his eyes. She hiccoughed, making him whimper as her body squeezed him. He pulled back to look fearfully into her eyes, reality crashing down on him like a stone wall.

Tears crept silently down her cheeks, making his heart seize with guilt and regret. He pulled away from her, yanking his pants and trousers up around his hips, avoiding her eyes while he worked the fastenings.

He looked back up to find her watching him silently, legs still splayed and her clothing twisted around her waist. Her lips were dark and swollen, and he could see angry marks rising on her thighs.

Shit. Oh, _shit_, what if he had hurt her? He wasn't usually so … violent. He had always been careful with girls, ever since that first time, when she had cried from the pain. But just now he simply hadn't been able to … hold himself back.

Angelina looked away, sliding from the counter to stand before him as she smoothed out her wrinkled skirt and bent to find her top and knickers that had been tossed to the floor.

He watched her silently, berating himself for losing control. He looked down at the floor, spying that winking eye once again, the fragment burnt around the edges. Fred.

What had he _done_? She was Fred's girl, first and always. And he had just …

He felt nauseous again, his throat clenching with suppressed tears. He didn't know where they were coming from. He'd been such a bloody watering pot today you'd think he'd have dried up by now.

Angelina pressed something into his hands. His shirt. He pulled it on slowly, hiding his face behind the fabric for as long as possible. When he finally emerged he found that she was watching him closely.

He took a step back, his hands rushing up to shove his hair back before digging deep into his pockets. She was chewing her swollen lips, her eyes begging him to say something. Deep inside him, his heart was going absolutely mental, battering itself against the cage of his ribs.

"Fuck, Angie. I'm sorry."

Her eyebrows crashed down furiously as she slapped her hand to his jaw, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"No. Don't –don't you dare apologize to me, George Weasley."

Now those tears were back in her eyes, making them sparkle like diamonds. He gave a shuddering sigh as he wrestled for the right thing to do. What did she want him to do?

She searched his face with frantic eyes before letting go and walking away, around the counter, leaving him standing there in the wreckage of his grief. He felt her absence like a physical thing, a pressure against his insides.

She turned and looked at him, holding her hand out steadily. He stared at it for so long that she started to lower it back to her side, jolting him into motion as he jumped over the counter and rushed to stand beside her, lacing their fingers together.

She gave him a small smile, weighed down at the corners by sadness.

"Would you like to eat lunch at my place? I'm not a great cook like your mum, but I make a wicked cup-a-soup."

He nodded, squeezing her hand as his aching throat prohibited speech.

He retrieved his wand and they both set about extinguishing the remaining fireworks and smoldering embers that littered the shop.

Angelina bent down, staring at a fragment of the painting before tapping it with her wand.

"_Reparo_!"

The painting flew back together, a bit burnt around the edges, but intact once more. George couldn't even look at it. The sight of his brother flooded him with guilt. He told her to stick it behind the counter, where it could remain out of sight.

He stared at the counter for a while after she placed it there, feeling his twin's gaze burning through the furniture.

Her tugging hands pulled him away and out of the shop, onto the still spotless steps. With a quick motion she tangled their hands together and they disapparated with a pop, the only trace of them the curling pink-tinged smoke that wound its way down the alley, causing more than one shopkeeper consternation and befuddlement.

Just as Fred would have wanted.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	28. Chapter 28 Explosion

**I'm obviously not J.K. Rowling, and I own absolutely no part of the Harry Potter universe.**

**Well I finally updated, I hope you enjoy it! I will warn you that it will probably be a few weeks before I get the next chapter posted, though.**

**This is a really long chapter and almost entirely Romione, so come get your fix! **

**No kids, please, this is an M rated fic.**

**Thank you so much for reviewing, you kept me working on this chapter for you!**

**Extra thanks to my awesome beta/cheerleader urbanmama, who kept me on track!  
**

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, I…"

"Oh no, _anything_ but that! "

Harry threw down his rumpled parchment at the agonized groan from his friend. Ron sprawled across the couch wrongside up, his long legs spilling over the back and his head hanging down the front, his bright hair brushing the worn floorboards of the Burrow's sitting room.

Piles of discarded parchment littered the space around them. Harry shifted slightly, feeling a misplaced quill poke him rather cheekily in the arse. Hermione sat beside the coffee table, sunk deep into an enormous tome she had found in Mr. Weasley's home office, detailing famous Muggle speakers. So far, the advice of his two best friends had proven less than helpful.

He slumped back in his chair, eyeing Ron with irritation as the ginger twit flipped a Bertie Botts' Bean into the air, catching it in his mouth. Harry nudged his glasses out of the way to rub his aching eyes.

"Well all right then, Ron, how exactly d'you suggest I start out?"

Ron stretched his arms out to drum on the coffee table before flipping rightside up, his face and neck deep red from holding such an odd position.

"I dunno, mate, but you definitely can't begin like that, "_Ladies and Gentlemen_"? Absolute rubbish, that is!"

Hermione's voice floated up from the cloud of hair that obscured her face.

"If you haven't anything constructive to add, Ron, you may as well leave Harry and me to get it done ourselves."

Ron pulled a face at her, making Harry exceedingly glad that she hadn't looked up, as the last thing he needed at the moment was the two of them nipping at each other like disgruntled puppies. Ron grabbed a handful of beans before flopping back against the couch, eyeing Hermione balefully as he shoveled the sweets into his mouth.

Harry sighed, leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair before propping his chin on his fist. This wasn't going well at all, and the speech was tomorrow! What was he going to do, exactly? Just get up there and bloody _wave_ at people!

Hermione interrupted his increasingly self-pitying thoughts as she slammed the book shut, releasing a thick cloud of dust that sent them all coughing. Ron raised his hands to angrily brush the thin film of dust out of his hair.

"Bloody hell, Hermione! What're you tryin' to do, exactly? Choke us to death! Oh, well, and that's sure to sort out Harry's speech, now isn't it? If he's bloody murdered by a madwoman with a book the day before the memorial, he won't have to say a word, will he?"

Hermione looked determinedly at Harry, refusing to acknowledge Ron at all.

"I believe I've found a satisfactory opening for you, Harry."

Harry leaned forward hopefully.

"Well it certainly can't be any worse than what I've come up with so far."

Hermione nodded, stinging Harry a tiny bit with her ready agreement.

"Precisely. I think you require something that properly conveys the profundity of your subject matter."

Ron groaned again, leaning forward as well to stare at her incredulously.

"In English please, Hermione."

She continued to ignore him, addressing Harry from her seat on the floor amidst the rather depressing piles of discarded parchment.

"The ultimate purpose of this speech is to honor those who fought alongside you, most especially those lost in the battle, right?"

Harry nodded, noting that Ron had for once remained silent and still.

"So you should just come right out and say that, shouldn't you? There's simply no use pretending that it isn't a difficult topic, or even that you particularly wanted to get up and say anything. You should simply say what needs to be said to acknowledge their sacrifice, without the usual trappings of public address."

Harry nodded slowly.

That was it. That was precisely what he had been doing wrong.

He had been trying too hard to put a polished face on it, to act like he was a seasoned public speaker, rather than just a rather lucky young man. He met Hermione's eyes, which as usual glittered with intelligence.

"Have I told you lately that you're brilliant, Hermione? That's exactly my problem, I've been trying to wrap this speech up in pretty phrases and expensive words, and that isn't what this is about at all, is it?"

Hermione beamed up at him, a light blush skimming her cheeks.

Harry looked down at his parchment, reading the much maligned opening phrase again before crushing it between his hands and flinging it to the floor. Hermione immediately scooted forward to hand him the sheet she had been scribbling on as she read.

He scanned her words, a slow smile spreading across his face as an enormous weight was lifted from his tired shoulders. He looked back at Hermione, whose eyebrows were raised expectantly.

"Brilliant. Seriously, Hermione, I could kiss you right now!"

It was like an ill wind had swept into the room, the temperature seemed to drop by several degrees as Hermione pulled back, her eyes glued to the floor, avoiding Ron's icy glare.

Harry looked at Ron, who sat stiffly on the couch, fists clenched on his knees as his disconcertingly glacial eyes stabbed at Harry. Harry opened his mouth to say … what exactly, he didn't know, for he never got the opportunity. Ron stood abruptly, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white beneath the scattering of freckles. He turned his glare to Hermione, who was busily rifling through the book, pretending that there had been no change in the atmosphere.

"Well, it's obvious that the two of you won't be needing _me_."

With that furious declaration, he turned and stomped out of the room, slamming the kitchen door behind him moments later. Hermione jumped at the noise, spilling her neat pile of parchment to the floor.

She leaned forward to gather it up, addressing Harry without making eye contact.

"Ignore him, Harry. He's being perfectly ridiculous, and we really ought to get this finished so that I can help you with revisions."

Harry stared after Ron for a few more seconds. Surely he hadn't thought that … it was ridiculous. After all, Harry was with Ginny now and … and he had quite plainly stated his feelings for Hermione earlier, after … well. He was sure that Ron had not forgotten the encounter.

He looked back down at Hermione, whose cheeks were mottled red with an angry flush as she bullied her parchment into organized submission. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I'm sorry, of course I didn't mean … well."

Hermione shook her head sharply, her hair going in every direction. She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes snapping at him with brewing irritation.

"There's absolutely no need for you to apologize, Harry. He had no cause to react in such a childish manner, and any misunderstanding is entirely his own fault. Now, let's get on with this, shall we?"

They finished the speech in near silence, both treating the other with careful politeness, Harry deeply missing the warm camaraderie of earlier. He caught her glancing out the window several times, trying to catch a glimpse of their volatile friend. Finally he pronounced it done and shooed her away, neatly deflecting her concerns and assertions that it still needed polishing.

He left her standing in the kitchen as he climbed the winding stairs, his freshly minted speech tucked tightly under his arm. Now it was time for him to lock himself in Ron's room for some much needed practice. That last thing he wanted to do tomorrow was to get up in front of the entire wizarding world and forget his lines. He could just see the headlines now:

'**Boy Who Lived Chokes On Own Words' , 'Audience Dies of Boredom at Hogwarts Memorial' , ' Albus Dumbledore Risen from the Grave to Halt Horrible Speech' **

Well, maybe that last one was a bit far-fetched, but _still_, it would be bloody humiliating.

…

Hermione returned her book to Mr. Weasley's office, smiling at his rather odd collection of Muggle artifacts. A blender sat proudly displayed beside an artistically arranged pile of cassette tapes, all neatly boxed in by rows of unsharpened pencils. She wondered just where he acquired the majority of his collection, imagining his scuffed loafers sticking out of someone's rubbish bin as he scavenged for hidden treasure. The image made her chuckle as she walked back into the kitchen, continuing out onto the porch.

She looked out across the back lawn, scanning the garden and Quidditch pitch for signs of her wayward boy. Spying nothing of significance, she turned her gaze to the copse of trees, biting her lip as she considered probabilities. Remembering the clearing he had shown her earlier, she decided that it was worth investigating.

She pushed her way through the underbrush, forced to stop a few times to untangle herself from grasping branches. She finally tumbled her way into the clearing, yanking her shirt away from a thorny vine.

Ron sat in the center of the clearing, his face registering surprise before contorting into a mask of petulant rage. He crossed his arms over his chest, stretching his long legs out in front of him to cross at the ankle. She could see that he was leaning against a good sized stone.

She stood in front of him, neglecting to speak, the silence stretching between them until he broke it with a snort.

"Harry let you go, then? Thought he'd keep you on a chain 'til his speech was all sorted out. Couldn't bloody well do it without you, now could he? All done showering you with his affections now that he's got your words on his parchment, is he?"

Hermione kicked his feet, causing his crossed ankle to fall to the ground. She crossed her own arms, glaring down at him from beneath sharply tilted brows.

"Don't be an idiot."

Ron glared right back at her, hurt flaring for a moment beneath the film of anger.

"Is that what he said after I left? I suppose the both of you were glad to be rid of me, then. The idiot ruining Harry's important speech."

Hermione rolled her eyes, growing increasingly weary of his childish behavior. She stomped forward to sit neatly on his legs, ignoring his sharp intake of breath as his entire body stiffened.

"Well, it _is_ important, isn't it? And you know as well as I that Harry would rather not have to say anything at all. He needed our help, Ron."

Ron looked away from her, the fingers of his left hand twisting the fabric of his shirt nervously, belying his air of nonchalance.

"No he didn't. He needed _your _help. The two of you make quite the pair, don't you? The most brilliant witch in bloody Britain, and the biggest hero in the wizarding world. I'll bet things went much more smoothly without me there to muck it up for you."

Hermione swallowed her irritation as she read the hurt in his posture, the uncertainty in his eyes. Something had pricked him deeply, in some hidden pocket of insecurities. She knew how that felt. It was that sick twisting of her insides whenever his eyes lingered on a pretty girl, envy and pain in the knowledge that she would never be exactly what he wanted.

"Ron. Look at me, please."

He complied, his eyes open and vulnerable, the shield of anger he had built around himself melting away. She found herself lost in their blue depths for a moment before pulling herself back to the task at hand.

"Harry and I … we need you." She paused, considering whether it was wise to reopen barely healing wounds. The doubt in his eyes strengthened her resolve, spurring her on.

"When you left-"

Her voice deserted her as an unexpected sob rose up in her chest, tightening her throat with unshed tears. She closed her eyes for a moment before locking back on his face, which had grown pale as the blood drained away, his eyes wide open and his lips pressed into a thin line. She took a breath and started again.

"After you left us, that night in the tent, things … changed. We could barely speak to each other, and there was no more laughter."

Not that there had been much to start with, the locket weighing down their souls and the hopelessness of their mission eating away at them. Still, with Ron there had always been the possibility of mirth, bubbling beneath the surface.

"It was like you had taken the sun with you, and we were dying from the cold. We both missed you, though perhaps I was a bit more of a severe case than Harry."

She offered him a sad smile, her own eyes watering as she watched a tear roll down his cheek. She gathered her courage, straightening her spine as she felt his legs shift nervously between her splayed knees.

"We still need you, Ron. We don't ever-we don't _ever_ want you to leave again, understand?"

Ron nodded jerkily, his pale cheeks wet. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. She went willingly, nestling her head beneath his chin. His breath hitched as he started to speak, cursing before starting again.

"M'sorry. M'such a hopeless prat, I don't know how either of you puts up with me. S'just that … s'just that when Harry said that to you, I could see it, in my head. The two of you together, so perfect an' brilliant an' _good_, an' I, I-just couldn't…"

She pulled back, pressing a fingertip to his lips, her eyes twinkling at his from beneath raised eyebrows.

"Me and _Harry_? Together, as a couple? Don't be disgusting, Ronald."

He smiled at that, some color returning to his face as only a hint of the earlier uncertainty remained in his eyes.

She wanted to banish that remaining trace, to shine her light on all of the darkest corners of his heart, to cast away forever the lingering shadows of doubt and pain.

However, as much as she loved him; which was a frighteningly enormous amount, she was discovering, his puerile behavior could not be allowed to continue. She framed his face with her hands, wiping the tears from his cheeks with a sweep of her thumbs.

"I want you to apologize to Harry."

His face immediately screwed up in distaste. He pulled his head away from her soothing hands, shaking his overlong hair back into his eyes.

"Harry doesn't need my apologies, Hermione. I'd best save us both the embarrassment and just not say anything at all."

She cocked her eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him her haughtiest look.

"Did I say that Harry needed you to apologize, Ron? No. I said that _I_ wanted you to apologize."

He opened his mouth purposefully, looking crestfallen as she quickly continued.

"To Harry."

He slanted her a look from beneath his shaggy fringe, his lips pushed off to the side in discontent. She untangled her hands to stroke his hair back from his face, a serious note entering her voice.

"Tomorrow is going to be … quite difficult. For everyone."

Ron turned his eyes away, looking at a spot just over her shoulder as he blinked furiously against the rising tears. She ducked her head to meet his gaze.

"It will be especially difficult for Harry, you know. He really needs you right now. I've done my bit, helping him with the speech. I like to think that my role is to be a part of Harry's brain. But you, Ron, you're a part of his heart."

Ron scrunched up his nose, tears forgotten.

"I think you mean Ginny, Hermione. I'm a bloke, an' I've got nothin' to do with Harry's heart."

She suppressed a smile at the way he spat out the word 'heart', like it was something nasty he had found beneath his shoe. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his forehead, tasting the salt of his skin.

"You're wrong. Harry will need every bit of his heart tomorrow, and that includes you. So you will apologize this evening and you will stand beside him when he needs you."

Ron rolled his eyes, sighing loudly.

"Yeah, alright. But you're to keep all of this 'heart' nonsense t'yourself, understand? Harry'd laugh his arse off if he heard you talking like that."

She nodded happily, allowing her lips to curve into a satisfied smile.

"Agreed."

They smiled at each other for a few blissful moments, the clinging shades of doubt washed away, at least for the time being. She started to push up from her position straddling his knees when she noticed the direction of his gaze.

Struggling through the underbrush had been rather unkind to her clothing, and the first few buttons of her blouse had come undone. The lace trimmed edge of her otherwise practical undergarments was just barely peeping from her significantly lowered neckline. She flushed, the temperate clearing feeling suddenly a bit overwarm.

He jerked his eyes up to her face, a deep red flush flooding his cheeks. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing slyly as a lopsided smirk pulled his lips up at the corners. The look of devilish amusement reminded her strongly of the twins.

"Guess I've been caught out, haven't I?"

She nodded, an answering smile playing at her lips as his hands settled on her splayed knees, his thumbs stroking through the thin material of her trousers. His playful manner sparked something in her, bringing forth a teasing purr she had not known she possessed as she leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"Ten points from Gryffindor."

His face froze in shock before splitting into a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He stroked one hand up her thigh to swat lightly at her bottom.

"Ten points? Bollocks. Wha' for?"

She struggled for a serious expression, failing miserably as her lips simply refused to uncurl. Spreading her knees farther apart, she settled closer into his lap, greatly amused as he swallowed loudly.

"For unseemly conduct, Weasley."

He nodded soberly, his eyes twinkling in a way that sent effervescent sparks dancing within her chest.

"Fair enough."

She took a breath to reply but he leaned in, brushing their lips together in the lightest of caresses before pressing a smile into the sensitive skin of her throat. His arms came around her, pulling her tight against him. She swallowed as she felt the scorching heat of his tongue just beneath the collar of her blouse.

"Um, Ron …"

He hooked his hands beneath her knees, pulling her legs to twine around him, her trainers pressing against the stone behind his back. He lifted his own knees so that she was cradled within the lanky frame of his body. She could not imagine a more perfect place to find herself. His mouth moved upward, burning a trail across her jaw. She shivered a bit as his moist breath tickled her ear.

"Whas'it, 'ermione? M'busy."

She shook her head slightly, having completely forgotten whatever weak protest she had been about to make. She could feel his smirk against her cheek before he captured her lips, flinging all rational thought to the wind. There was something about Ron Weasley, a chemical in his scent, perhaps, that rendered her absolutely mindless. An occurrence that really should have terrified her, but instead felt rather … safe.

His kisses started out light and teasing before suddenly taking on a deeper, darker edge. His large hand engulfed the back of her skull, holding her in place while he possessed her mouth. And that was what it was, that dark edge, it was possession. He was trying to show her something he couldn't say, in true Ronald fashion. And, just like with any provocation on his part, she could not help but respond in kind.

She dug the fingers of one hand into his hair, twisting and pulling the fiery locks until he gasped against her mouth, lightly nipping her bottom lip in punishment. He released her head to work on the buttons of her top, his fingers slipping and fumbling in haste. She briefly mourned the loss of another blouse before attacking his shirt with her own more nimble fingers, making short work of the worn-thin garment. She pushed it off of his shoulders, digging her nails into the exposed flesh, earning a growl as his hips surged upwards, lifting them from the ground.

His hands came back up to cradle her head as he rolled them neatly away from the stone, so she lay beneath him on the sun-warmed grass. His eyes were dark and serious, any hint of teasing long gone. He pulled back slightly, stroking the sides of her face with his broad thumbs.

"Hermione, you-"

She lifted her head, wrapping her arms about his neck to hold him still while she used her tongue to map the interior of his mouth. He pulled away, gasping for air as he pressed down on her shoulders, gently holding her in place. She began kissing the skin of his wrist, nuzzling into the freckled flesh. He caught her jaw in his hand, turning her gently to meet his eyes.

Azure. No, cerulean. Cobalt.

There was not a word for this color in existence, actually. A new term was in order, surely.

"Hermione…"

He stopped, his eyes running over her face anxiously, to be sure he had her attention. She attempted to don her most studious expression to convey her absolute focus on his words. He looked surprised, his lips lifting at the corners as he continued to stare into her eyes.

Plain brown eyes, she thought. No need for further color classification, unfortunately. Just another feature on the long list of the un-noteworthy traits of Hermione Granger.

"I want you-"

"I want you too, Ron"

She rushed in to reassure him, her breathless words running over his like a galloping herd of centaur.

He looked taken aback, grinning for a moment before his eyes sharpened on hers, that dark edge creeping back in. His fingers tightened in her hair as he leaned in, rubbing their noses together.

"Thas' good to know, truly, but I was tryin' to say that I – that you – I mean…"

But Hermione didn't want to talk. For once she was tired of discussion and debate. Actually, for once she was tired of thinking. She had been thinking all day, concentrating on Harry's speech, and now she longed for nothing more than to lose herself in the mindless heat of Ron's embrace. She raised her finger to his lips, searching his eyes as she felt a dark blush burn across her cheeks.

"Ron? Could we … discuss this later, possibly?"

He nodded, his eyes darkening with that edge, his face all sharp planes and shadows with the sun behind his head. She ran her hands across his shoulders, pushing his shirt down his arms until he was forced to pull away and remove it entirely.

He was so … beautiful. Incredibly lean, after all the time they had spent with barely enough food to get by. His was obviously a metabolism that required constant feeding to maintain his weight. The pale cream of his skin was stretched tight over fascinating ridges of muscle and bone, seeming to expose every tiny detail to her gaze. She licked her lips as he leaned his weight on his arms, the ropey muscles rolling together beneath his skin.

There was a grouping of freckles, there on his right shoulder, that she had never noticed before. It absolutely commanded her to raise her head and explore the area with her lips, his skin burning beneath her touch.

He leaned to the side, one of his broad hands spreading across her stomach, making it flutter beneath the calloused brush of his fingertips. She had never liked her stomach. It was too soft, too pale, too … boring. Stretching out forever beneath her inadequate breasts, which had always been too small to even be noticeable. When she lay on her back like this, they seemed to nearly disappear entirely. She wished that she had more to offer in terms of looks. She wished that she could be everything that he deserved and desired, but she was just herself, small and plain and desperate for his touch.

His hand nudged the open edges of her blouse aside, exposing her ordinary white cotton bra. She swallowed, wishing that she owned more provocative undergarments, something bright or embellished to distract from the woeful imperfection of her body. He brought his fingers up to trace the thin lace edge, dipping beneath her strap and pushing it off of her shoulder to join the fabric of her blouse which had bunched around her arms. She took a deep breath as her tender flesh was exposed to the air, her eyes glued to his face, watching for signs of disappointment or disgust.

All she found there was a look of fierce concentration tinged with … something close to awe, actually. His eyes darted up to hers, his tongue peeking out to moisten his lips before they opened to form words.

"Hermione, is it alright if I-"

She rushed in, nodding emphatically, her voice holding an unfamiliar whisp of breathiness.

"Yes. Anything."

A smile rose in his eyes before burning away in the intensity of his gaze, which dropped to her chest. It was like she could feel his eyes on her skin, blazing a scattered trail across her breasts. His hand pulled the cups of her bra down, leaving it twisted about her ribs. Her chest began to rise rapidly, fear and desire warring for supremacy in her mind.

He scooted his body closer to hers until they lay intertwined on the grass, one long leg thrown across hers and pinning her down. He dipped his head to press his lips to hers in a slow, searching kiss. She felt as though every one of her secrets was rising to the surface, right there for him to see.

She placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat pound beneath the layers of flesh and bone, nearly as fast as her own. She let her hand explore his skin, brushing over tiny flat nipples sparsely ringed with springy curls, down the ridges of his stomach and back up the along the broad plane of his back. His kisses grew deeper, more urgent and undisciplined. His mouth burned along her jaw and down to lick at her collarbones like reaching flames.

He hesitated, glancing up at her through pale lashes before brushing his lips across the slight swell of her breast, nearly bringing her flying up from the grass. He mumbled something into her skin before opening his mouth over the peak of her breast, sending an electric dagger straight to her core. She whimpered as a deep ache set in between her thighs, bringing his head up at the sound. His brows came together in concern, his face flushed pink beneath the freckles.

"S'okay?"

She nodded, unable to speak, and he returned his attention to her breasts, more confident now, his actions surer, firmer. His hand cupped her flesh, kneading gently as he covered her in open mouthed kisses, his tongue working the tips of her breasts until she was nothing more than a raw bundle of nerves melting into his embrace. Tiny sounds escaped her throat as she dug her fingers into his hair, holding him in place. He began to move, urging himself against her thigh in slow, rhythmic motions. She could feel the hard length of him burning through the layered fabric of their trousers.

His kisses grew sloppier, as he seemed to be attempting to fit more and more of her flesh into his mouth, growling and mumbling into her skin. She cried out as he began to suck, somehow feeling the hot, wet pull in that aching void between her legs. His hand inched its way down her stomach, his fingertips following her zip down to her center, his palm pressing against her just _there_, making her want to cry with need.

She pushed hard against his shoulders, raising his head and bringing his hand flying away from her body like he had been caught stealing cookies. He was panting, his lips swollen and wet, a brighter shade of pink than the rest of his flaming face. His eyes searched hers, uncertainty creeping back in, shoving back the sharp edge of desire.

"M'sorry, I was just-"

"No, don't apologize, I just wanted to-"

She kept pushing against his shoulders until he lay flat on his back, their positions reversed. She knelt above him and took a moment to appreciate the scenery. His blush spread down from his face all the way across his chest, tinting his skin a delicious color that reminded her of candy floss. She dipped down to lick at his nipples, remembering how his tongue had felt on her own body. She was rewarded by a deep groan and muttered cursing, his hands tangling in her hair to bring her lips up to his, her naked breasts brushing against his skin and sending sparks shooting down her abdomen.

She pulled away, running her hands down his body, wagging an admonishing finger as he tried to sit up, sending him lying back down obediently, watching her with wide eyes.

…

Unbelievable.

Yes, people probably used that particular word a bit too much sometimes, but … this.

This was bloody unbelievable. Ron could hardly breathe; his heart took up too much room in his chest as he looked up at her, kneeling over him like a bleedin' goddess.

Her shirt hung completely open, though he was a bit proud to note that all of her buttons seemed to be present and accounted for. He was getting better at this kind of thing, apparently. Though certainly he required more practice. Lots and lots of practice.

And her tits. Sweet merciful Merlin, her tits. They were _right there_, right there hovering over him like beautiful perfect mounds of candy, begging for him to put them back in his mouth where they belonged. And they were glistening, wet from his kisses, shimmering in the filtered sunlight of the clearing.

Unbelievable.

She sat up, pulling the front of her bra back over herself, making his throat seize with panic. No! She couldn't put them away yet! He'd only just met them properly, and he wasn't ready to see them go.

He scrambled to a sitting position, ignoring her hands waving him back down. He brought his own hands up to push her blouse down her arms, throwing it somewhere off behind her, where hopefully she would never find it again.

He kissed her quickly, before she could open her mouth and say something horrid, like "Stop.". He wrapped his arms around her and tried desperately to remember everything that Fred and George had ever told him about the mysteries of ladies' undergarments.

He felt along her back for the fastening, trying to locate it before she realized what he was doing. Maybe it was … wait! There, a little raised bit at the back. But how did he …?

The problem with Fred and George was not that they didn't tell him what he needed to know, it was that they always told him so much rubbish in addition that it became rather difficult to sort out the important bits. Like how to unfasten this bloody latch.

Good crackers, you'd think she was locking up the secrets of magical history; this thing was so hard to release.

"Ron?"

Shit. She'd noticed. And he was such a prat that he'd forgotten to keep kissing her for distraction.

He flattened his hands against her back, rubbing in little circles like that had been what he was trying to do all along.

"Hmm?"

He buried his face in her gloriously disordered mountain of hair, hoping against hope that she would just drop it and continue to allow him to snog her to death.

She pulled away, chewing her lip as she met his eyes. He tried to look as innocent as possible, most likely failing quite miserably. To his shock and delight, she reached behind her back, grabbed his hands, and put them back against the ridiculously difficult fastening.

The look on her face reminded him rather strongly of the countless times she had helped him master a new spell. Patience and expectancy and just a little bit of condescension.

He fumbled with the fastening, grabbing the fabric at each end and pulling, hoping that it would come apart like snaps. She shook her head, her face a delightful shade of pink as she reached back to help him.

Merlin's beard, she might as well just go on and relieve him of his bollocks while she was at it. There was something really emasculating about your girlfriend having to help you take off her bra. His brothers would laugh their arses off if they knew. He brushed her hands away, shaking his head angrily.

"No, don't help. Just – just let me do it, alright? I know I'm rubbish, but-"

She nodded, closing her eyes and rubbing her face against his neck, giving him a good view of her back once he had shoved aside her hair. Ah! There it was, the tricky little devil. It was some type of hooky-thing, then, with a little loop at one end and a bendy bit at the other. Crunching up his face in concentration, he pushed the bendy bit in and removed it from the loop.

Success.

The garment fell apart like it had been the simplest thing in the world to remove, the straps sliding from her shoulders as she sat back to face him. Cheeky bastard.

The bra, not the girl.

She let it fall to the ground, bringing her arms up to cover herself. Should be a crime or something, her doing that. Something that beautiful just shouldn't be covered up. He took her hands gently, trying to keep his own from shaking as he moved them to her sides, exposing her to his gaze. She turned her head away, her cheeks flushed and those melting chocolate eyes downcast.

It was really just as well that she wasn't looking him straight in the eye. His facial expression had to be somewhat comical, he could feel a bit of drool collecting in the corners of his slack-jawed mouth but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. She was … magnificent. Really.

And for some bizarre reason locked inside her formidable brain, she was his.

He tried to slow his breathing as it quickened, releasing in great pants, his eyes glued to her naked flesh. She was so little and so soft and so … perfect.

She held perfectly still as his hands trailed along her lovely stomach and up over her ribs to hover just beneath her breasts. And they were breasts, weren't they? She'd like that better than him calling them tits, probably. Hermione's breasts fit perfectly in his palm, like they had been made for his hands. Like she had been made for him.

He felt himself grow even harder as he wondered if she would fit just as perfectly in other … areas. The delicious pressure of her bum against him began to set off a danger signal in his brain, and he shifted in an attempt to keep himself from ultimate humiliation.

Her eyes flew to his, sharp and deep and burning with that passion that had always drawn him to her, making him do anything to spark the fire in her eyes. Anything. He would do anything for her, be anything for her. All she had to do was look at him with those eyes and-

Dragon's Tits!

She was-she was going for his zip, her nimble little fingers tickling against his belly, burning him through his trousers as they teased against his throbbing- Shit!

He grabbed her wrist, his body warring with his heart. This was … everything he had ever dreamed of, and yet … wasn't it too soon? He didn't want to rush her into anything, he wanted her to know just how much she-

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

She twisted her wrist away, kissing him deeply as she wrapped her fingers around him through his pants, bringing his hips thrusting up on their own as his back arched against the ground. The entire world narrowed down to this one perfect girl with her perfect hand on his-

His breath hissed in through his teeth as she pushed down his faded orange pants, exposing him to the air and her burning eyes. She leaned back, taking a moment to examine him like he was a rare bit of magic she had come across in a book. The wet pink edge of her tongue dabbed at her lower lip in concentration as she stroked him experimentally, and that-that expression that was so very much Hermione, was his ultimate undoing.

He opened his mouth to warn her, but it was already too late. Overwhelming waves of pulsating pleasure rocked his body as he spilled himself all over her hand, her mouth shocked open in a little "o" of surprise.

The world stopped then, their eyes locked together for an endless moment. She blinked slowly, releasing Ron from his trance and allowing the full weight of his mortification to fall directly on his heart. He could feel his skin burning, a dark prickling blush suffusing every available surface.

He yanked his pants up angrily, avoiding her eyes as she slid off of him, allowing him to stand up and remove his wand from his back pocket, muttering a well-practiced cleansing spell over his stomach to remove the sticky evidence of his most recent failure.

Why? Why was it always, _always_ in front of her that he came up short or forgot how to speak or any number of ridiculous things that he always managed to do right when he most desperately wanted her to take him seriously? Bloody unfair, that was.

He risked a glance at her, to find that she was still sitting nearly motionless just where he had left her, examining her hand like it might hold the world's greatest secrets.

She didn't even seem to notice her own nudity as she tilted her hand, watching the play of light over the shiny puddle of his … um … stuff. If he could have blushed any harder, he would have. He'd made a mess all over her hand, and she had barely touched him. Pathetic.

He stepped forward, wand out to clean his mess when she did something that caused him to stop in his tracks, his wand dangling forgotten from his fingertips. With a look of utter concentration, she lifted her hand to her lips, darting her tongue out to taste … him. Her eyes shut as she pursed her lips like she was trying to remember the next step in brewing a potion or something.

Ron was immediately hard again. Painfully so. Had to be some kind of record, that. He was a randy bloke and all, but he had never recovered quite so quickly after such an intense … release.

She didn't even seem to know what she was doing to him with her innocently scientific explorations, cocking her head to once again examine the surface of her hand. Ron came to his knees beside her, taking her hand and cleaning it under her indignant protestations. He couldn't take any more of that. If she had tried to … taste him again, he could not be held responsible for his actions. And she deserved better than that, better than a lightning quick shag just beyond his parents' back lawn, better than anything he had to offer.

She looked up at him, blinking away the hazy look in her eyes, which widened to nearly perfect circles as she jerked her hand away, scrambling to her feet with both arms crossed tight over her chest, her head whipping around in search of her clothing. Ron silently gathered her bra and top, handing them both to her before sitting down and sorting out his own shirt, buttoning it with quick, angry motions.

He was such a … nothing. He wished that a giant hole would just open up in the center of the clearing and swallow him whole, so he never had to look her in the face again.

…

He was avoiding her eyes.

Hermione pulled her knees up tight against her chest, berating herself for being such a … Hermione. Always examining everything, always learning and never just _living_. He probably thought she was mental, having caught her tasting his semen like that. It was just that … she had read quite a bit about it. Ejaculation. But the experience was so far removed from the textual information as to be comical. It had been … raw, and beautiful, and deeply satisfying in some indefinable, indescribable way.

She had felt such a rush of … feminine power in that moment, as he arched beneath her, his flesh throbbing in her grip as a warm rush of animal pleasure spilled out over her hand and onto his stomach. Her body shivered as she remembered the primal joy of the moment.

She gazed at him steadily, watching him fuss with his shirt and trousers, his face and neck burning a painful red over his collar. He had yet to look at her, his eyes glued determinedly to the ground.

Suddenly he stood in an awkward tangle of lanky limbs, muttering something about the kitchen before turning to go. She stretched out along the grass, stopping him with a hand on his ankle. He froze, every atom of his being screaming embarrassment, from his stiff crimson neck to his rigid back. She let him go, wrapping her arms once again around her knees, her eyes fixed to the hand he had clenched around his wand.

"I'm sorry."

He turned around so quickly she felt a bit dizzy, blinking up at him from her position on the ground.

"You're sorry? You? When I just … and now _you're_ sorry?"

She nodded, leaning back a bit as hysterical laughter erupted from his throat.

"Mental, you are. If anyone's sorry, it's me. A sorry excuse for a-"

She shot up from the ground, her hand clapped to his mouth before he could continue, her eyes fiercely narrowed on his.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sorry for … taking you by surprise like that, I should have waited until you had given some indication of readiness or-"

He ripped her hand from his mouth, his eyes wide with incredulity.

"Indication? Of readiness? So I suppose that the enormous raging cock-stand wasn't indication enough for you, then?"

His mouth shut with a snap as his brain caught up with his words, the furious blush that had been slowly fading returning in full glory. She brushed her thumb against his cheek, causing him to shut his eyes and sigh, relaxing slightly.

"Are you angry with me, Ron?"

He shook his head slowly, taking her hand in both of his as he covered his face with all three, speaking into her palm.

"M'not angry. M'just … I was damn pathetic wasn't I? Just now? I'd give the world to take it back and do things properly, the way it should always be for you."

She kissed the backs of his hands, feeling his eyelashes blink against her fingertips.

"No. Not pathetic. Perfect."

He dropped his hands, looking completely agog.

"Perfect! You _are_ mental! I need to have a look at that dictionary you're so fond of, if it's been mixing up the words like that. Perfect for pathetic. Makes a bloke shudder to think what you really mean when you say something's 'lovely' doesn't it?"

She stood up on her toes to brush their lips together, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, a secret smile spreading across her face as she felt his arms come around her waist. She nuzzled into his neck, whispering in his bright red ear.

"Ron?"

"Hmm?"

"It was lovely, too."

He pulled back to give her a look of mock horror.

"Oh well, that settles it. Lovely? I'm bloody doomed, aren't I?"

She shook her head, pressing it against his chest as his arms tightened around her. They stood in companionable silence for a few moments before Ron leaned down, gently moving her hair out of the way so he could whisper softly in her ear.

"Hermione?"

She made some sort of purring sound, burrowing into his chest, her hands clutching the fabric at the back of his shirt.

"I just wanted to-I mean. Shit."

She chuckled quietly, suppressing the urge to fuss about his language. He sighed deeply, her head rising and falling with his chest, before trying again.

"What I was trying to tell you earlier is you just-you mean so much. To me. And I know you know that already, because you're bloody brilliant, but I needed to tell you myself. And you-you don't have to do … things like what we did earlier if you don't want to. I'll wait for you, as long as you want. Bloody hell, I'd wait another five years if you asked me to."

Hermione pulled her head back, her eyebrows raised in twin arches of disbelief.

"Five years? What are you-"

"S'how long I waited to kiss you properly. Thing is, at first I didn't even know what I was waiting for, but it was there all the same, a tingling on my skin whenever you were near. Took me ages to sort out what it meant, but by then you were…"

"I was what, Ron?"

"You were with someone better than me. You had done your hair and put on this dress that made my chest ache and you were letting him put his hands on you and-"

He broke off with a sigh, burying his face in her hair, muttering muffled curses into her scalp before turning his head to rest his cheek on her hair.

"So that's when I realized what I had been waiting for. And if you'll just … bear with me, then I promise to try to be less pathetic the next time. Maybe it'll work out better if you give me a bit of warning first, somethin' like;

'Hang on, Ron, I'm about to stick my hands in your trousers, so do try not to act a complete tit.'

Think it might help a bit if I was more prepared, y'see."

Hermione laughed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder as she looked up into his eyes, now twinkling with humor.

"I'll try. Though you should know that you really weren't pathetic in the least. This … thing between us, it doesn't always go smoothly, but that doesn't mean it isn't perfect. That's just … you and me, isn't it? Sometimes we rub along nicely and sometimes we just … explode."

Ron groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Ah, that's terrible, Hermione! You really should think a bit about your word choice. Talking like that … it could give a bloke ideas."

He waggled his eyebrows in an obvious copy of George's most lascivious expression.

Hermione grinned, pulling his hand as she walked to the edge of the clearing, tossing her words over her shoulder.

"Well, you've got to get ideas from somewhere, haven't you? It isn't like you'll come up with one on your own…"

"Oi! I resent that!"

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	29. Chapter 29 Memorial

**I own nothing Harry Potter, it's all J.K. Rowling's.**

**I FINALLY updated! **

**This has been a crazy few months for me, and I'm sorry it was such a long wait! I'm afraid it will be a while before the next chapter is up, though hopefully not quite as long.  
**

**The fic is still M for a reason.**

**Thank you everyone who reviewed!**

**Extra thank you to my beta, urbanmama1, who is completely awesome.**

* * *

Combs flew furiously through the air of the crowded kitchen, attacking the head of every man fool enough to stand still for a moment.

His dad sat with a newspaper held up high around his ears as a shield against Mum's slightly hysterical preparations, the combs battering at the paper with a loud rustling that provided the only sound in the room. Percy seemed to be the only one whose hair passed muster, the combs whizzing by him to descend on poor Harry. Admirable, really, the way he somehow resisted the urge to swat them away. Of course, most of his focus was probably on keeping down his lunch. He had that suspiciously green tint to him that Ron often experienced just before a big Quidditch match.

Ron batted at the comb that kept trying to coax his fringe into deciding on one side or the other of his face to lie on. It was useless, he knew that once the combs went away it would all just go back in his eyes. This was his third round with the stupid things, they kept coming back to put his hair in order, since the first thing he did when they floated away was shake his head.

George sat like a statue in the corner, his face a pale mask of disinterest as the combs fluttered around his head. It struck Ron as very odd that he didn't even try to blow one up or something. It was very out of character for him to just allow Mum to fuss over his appearance. Something sharp rolled around inside his chest as he watched his brother, somehow out of place now, like a single shoe when there should have been a pair.

Why did they have to do this? He fussed with the cuff of his new dress robes, thankfully free of lace and ruffles. It felt like they were going to another round of funerals or something, the way everyone stood together in crushing silence, waiting for an event no one wanted to attend.

The combs arranged themselves in neat rows on the kitchen table as Mum bustled upstairs to check on the girls again. Last time she had come down muttering darkly about what she would do to Ginny and Angelina if they didn't start getting themselves in order. For a while, there had been mysterious thumping and giggling coming from Ginny's room, and even one muffled scream. All had been quiet for a bit now, though. Surely they were almost ready. The men had been ready for ages, after all.

Mum came down the stairs much more slowly than she had climbed up them, the proud smile on her face making her look really quite nice in her light purple –she had called it some flower name-dress, the color not quite as faded and the lace not seeming quite as worn now that she looked happy again.

She turned around at the bottom, clearing her throat meaningfully at Dad until he folded his paper and stood up, then clapping her hands smartly while peering up the stairs.

Ginny appeared first, all smiling cheeks and bouncing hair as she trotted down the stairs in an astoundingly cheerful yellow dress. He rather liked that color actually, it reminded him of buttered waffles…

Harry seemed to have overcome his nausea rather rapidly as he bounded up to the bottom step, seeming nearly out of breath as he held up his arm for Ginny, stammering something about the way she looked. Ron tried to suppress a smirk at the way his best friend turned into a blithering idiot just because his little sister put on a nice frock. Pathetic.

Angelina was next, starting down the stairs sedately before leaping onto the banister with a loud whoop, sliding down arse-first only to make a truly impressive dismount just before she would have run right into the newel post. Ron glanced at George to see his mask crack just a little, his lips twitching upwards at the corners as he wrapped his arm casually around her waist, giving her a seven out of ten for sloppy ankles.

Now Ron found himself craning his neck to see who was next, but it was only Fleur, floating down the stairs in a pale silver gown that made her look like starlight. Ron sighed loudly, his stomach sinking a bit with disappointment. He had been hoping for a girl with serious eyes and bushy brown hair to walk down the steps with her usual efficiency. Why was this taking so long? He fidgeted in place, wanting to walk to the foot of the stairs to wait for her, wanting to run up the stairs and get her. He didn't want to end up looking as much of an idiot as Harry, though, so he kept his place.

The first sign of trouble was a hint of something shiny and blue, fluttering out from the landing. His heart lodged in his throat because suddenly he knew. It was _her_, finally. Felt like he'd been waiting for ages. Someone giggled and he looked around to find that he had somehow made it to the base of the stairway, his foot already on the bottom step. He glared at Ginny as he stepped back, ignoring the smirk on Harry's face to stare up the stairs, willing her to step out into his view.

And then, there she was.

He could hear his blood rushing in his ears as she walked slowly and carefully down the steps, balancing on pointy shoes that looked rather painful to him. Damn sexy, but painful. The delicate, shiny fabric of her dress alternately fluttered out and molded to her body, leaving him playing a guessing game as to what she was wearing underneath. Fingers crossed for nothing.

The high neck of her dress draped from the tip of one shoulder to the other, framing her face like a picture. Merlin, her face. She had done something, some kind of girl-trick that magnified her eyes until he felt like he was drowning in them. He wanted to drown in them. His eyes dipped to her lips as she offered a tentative smile, as if she was unsure of his reaction. They had been painted a bit darker than they really were, and coated in something shiny that made them look absolutely delicious. She looked delicious.

Her hair had somehow been tamed into a cascade of orderly curls, draping artfully down from the top of her head to the base of her neck. It looked nice, but he would have preferred something he was allowed to run his fingers through. He'd lay odds that if he got his hands tangled in those curls he'd come away with a few of his fingers hexed off.

Someone tugged at his sleeve and he turned angrily to George, who muttered to him under his breath.

"Hang on, Ron, let her come all the way down."

Ron flushed scarlet as he realized that he had begun climbing the steps to get to her. He backed down; ignoring the eyes of his family which he could feel burning into the back of his head.

It seemed like hours, but a few more steps and she was finally face to face, standing two steps above him. He opened his mouth to say something, but his tongue had swollen like he had accidentally eaten a ton-tongue candy. He settled for gesturing vaguely at his own head, grinning like a lunatic. She smiled back at him, her eyes sparkling with happiness as she raised a hand to her hair, patting it carefully.

"Do you like it?"

He almost broke his neck from nodding too hard, ignoring a guffaw he was certain had come from Charlie's direction.

He held out his arm, his heart pounding as she placed her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow, coming down the rest of the way to stand at his side. Conversation broke out around them, but he couldn't be bothered to pay attention. She was burning him, the heat of her pressed against his side surely leaving a brand on his flesh. Ginny jostled them as she sorted out warm over-robes for all of the girls, and he placed his hand on the small of Hermione's back to steady her, sucking in his breath as he came in contact with naked skin. Pulling her by the arm, he spun her around to investigate.

"Where's the rest of it?"

She craned her head around to stare at him, unable to turn because of the grip he had on her shoulders as he gazed in shock at the expanse of naked flesh left visible by the plunging back of her gown. The dark, slippery fabric draped nearly to her waist, somehow suspended from the tips of her shoulders. She raised her eyebrows coolly.

"Where is the rest of what, Ron?"

He let go of her to cross his arms, something bestial nipping at his insides at the thought of every man at the memorial seeing her like this. Seeing so _much_ of her like this.

"The dress! Half of your bloody dress is missing, if you haven't noticed!"

George and Angelina stood behind Hermione, shaking their heads frantically. George kept twisting his fingers in front of his lips like he was turning a key in a lock, while Angelina hopped on one foot, trying to fit the other into her mouth. Ron steadfastly ignored them, concentrating on the girl in front of him. The sparkle was slowly fading from her eyes as she too crossed her arms, causing Harry to groan loudly and mutter something to Ginny that sounded remarkably like "and here we go again." Ron ignored that, too.

Hermione's eyes glittered for a moment, as if she were fighting back tears, leaving him feeling like he had been punched in the gut, opening his mouth to apologize. She got there first, blinking rapidly as her beautiful face froze with anger.

"Well. I'm sorry that you don't like it. Ginny thought it looked fetching."

Fetching. Yeah, that was perfect. Made to fetch every man panting to her side like a bloody magnet, is what it was.

He glared at her, unable to think of anything to say other than for her to throw a jumper on over the dress, which he knew was perfectly ridiculous. She turned away from him, sniffing loudly as she accepted a shining silver robe from Ginny with a murmured thanks.

He stepped forward, taking the robe from her to drape it about her shoulders, leaning in to whisper in her ear as she refused to look at him.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…I'm sorry. You look completely fucking gorgeous."

She smiled at him over her shoulder, her face beaming so brightly the sun paled in comparison, and suddenly he didn't care quite so much about the lack of dress. She had done all of this for him; the hair, the dress (well, what there was of it), the pointy shoes, the shiny stuff all over her lips. He wondered how long it would take to snog every bit of that shiny stuff off of her … not too long, probably, if he-

"Well, we're off to fetch our dates, see you lot at the thing!"

Charlie turned to clap Percy about the shoulders, apparently ignoring the former's lecture on why this event was not a "thing" and should not be referred to as such, propelling them both out of the door to disapparate on the front lawn.

…

Angelina was muttering something under her breath, but since she had taken hold of his right arm, he couldn't make out what she was saying. His hearing was a bit off on that side.

Not that it mattered. That he couldn't hear her or even what exactly it was that she was saying. None of it mattered.

He felt guilty, for not caring about whatever it was she was trying to say. He felt a lot of things when it came to Angelina, really, but for the moment guilt was at the forefront. Though, even that burning emotion felt dulled and distant now.

He squinted, recognizing a familiar face up ahead. Kingsley stood at the gates, along with a substantial guard. The tall, thin wizard to Kingsley's left routinely circled his wand around the face of each guest before they were allowed to enter.

George hung back a bit as Harry and Ginny approached the gate, causing a great cheer to rise from the gathering crowd. Harry waved with a tight smile on his face. It was a little bit funny, the kid had faced effing Voldemort himself, but the thought of public speaking left him suffering a nearly Ron-like case of nerves.

Two by two, his family entered the gates until only he and Angelina were left outside. His breath was coming just a little bit too quickly as he stared at the familiar castle walls. Angelina stood quietly by his side, and he was enormously thankful that she didn't tug on his arm or make any move toward the gate. He felt rooted to the spot, unable and unwilling to enter the place he had last seen his brother, alive or dead.

After a few more moments of silence, Angelina turned to place a gentle hand on his chest, her dark eyes shining with understanding.

"Fancy a walk about the grounds?"

He didn't answer. He just took off in a random direction, pulling her along with him. She stumbled as her heels caught in the grass but he couldn't slow down. He had to get out of here before that terrible thing inside of him came out for everyone to see. He could feel it ripping at his insides, burning in his blood like acid. He just…he couldn't do this.

…

Neville shifted, fidgeting a bit in his seat. He had been led to the front row, having been assured by the usher that there was no mistake. His name shone on the seat in golden letters, Luna seated to his right. She was turned around in her chair, gazing out serenely over the crowd to smile and wave at each of their friends.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She looked lovely in that dress. Perhaps it was a little bit odd, constructed out of some sort of shimmery plaid in varying shades of purple and green, but she looked absolutely beautiful in it. Her hair hung loose, cascading down her back and over her shoulders. He smiled as he noticed her wand sticking out from behind her ear. Luna could always be counted upon to be herself, no matter the occasion.

He pulled out his roll of parchment, scanning over his short speech for the thousandth time today. He would have preferred to keep his seat and blend into the audience, but he understood his obligation to his fellow soldier. He owed them everything, one little speech was a very small contribution considering all they had done under his command.

He shot to his feet as he spotted a cluster of DA members standing off to the side. With a quick word to Luna he was off, scanning the group for those he knew had suffered greatly in the final battle.

Dean Thomas stood with his arm around Lavender's waist. Neville could not tell if it was there more for emotional or physical support. She looked a bit wrung out, though altogether rather pretty in her floaty pink dress. Her face was carefully made up, but he could see the bruising along her throat where the edge of her makeup formed a line. Her arms were completely covered by long satin gloves, and he knew there was more damage hidden beneath the frothy layers of dress. She offered him a bright smile as he drew even with the group, shaking hands with Seamus as his dorm mate bounced into view.

"Been waitin' for you, Nev. I just left my Mam talkin' wit' your Gran, and I swear they were both singing your praises like bleedin' nightingales!"

Neville shrugged, feeling awkward. He locked eyes with Lavender, the questions plain on his face. She laughed softly, the trademark girlish giggle hardened with a sharper edge now.

"I'm fine, really. The Healers let me out for the night. I've a note if you'd like to see it."

He shook his head slowly, turning as a hand squeezed his shoulder. Michael Corner stood grinning at him, his skin stretching oddly around barely healed scars. Neville felt a sharp stab of guilt as he looked into the brave face. Michael had endured so much before the battle had even begun, all because Neville had been unable to draw all of the punishment onto himself. He still felt largely responsible for all of them, the members of DA, for all that they had been through this past year together.

He smiled back at Michael, pulling his friend into a swift, clumsy hug before immediately stepping back to greet the rest of his friends.

Before he knew it, they were slipping back into the old way of things, bantering back and forth while sharing news of loved ones, both found and lost. He was just beginning to relax when he felt a small, cool hand wrap around his own. He looked down into Luna's eyes, squeezing her hand for a silent moment before she turned to join the conversation. Dean caught his eye, looking meaningfully at their intertwined hands with raised eyebrows. Neville pretended not to understand what he was asking.

His … friendship with Luna was too complicated to convey with a look. He wasn't even sure that he truly understood it himself, yet. Dean's lips tightened as he looked away, obviously dissatisfied with Neville's lack of response.

…

Harry took his seat on the raised dais, focusing on the smiling faces of Ginny, Ron, and Hermione in the front row. Neville and Luna were just taking their seats beside them as Kingsley rose to stand at the podium. Harry felt his heart constricting as the memories of looking up at Dumbledore standing there washed over him, taking him back to the terror and excitement of his first year.

The audience fell silent as Kingsley regarded them over the podium. He was such a commanding figure that everyone took notice immediately without him having to so much as clear his throat.

He turned to one side, sweeping his wand along the wall. The audience gasped as the long black swaths of cloth burst into shards of light which seemed to flutter away like a swarm of butterflies, up into the renewed enchantment of the night sky overhead. They settled there like stars, glimmering softly as they helped to light the hall. He turned and repeated the gesture on the other side and this time Harry noticed just what it was the cloth had been concealing. Tapestries hung high on the walls, depicting the faces of everyone lost in the final battle. Set in rings of their respective House colors, they were all interwoven together into an elegant design. Harry could just make out a few words woven of golden thread along the borders of the tapestries. Bravery, Truth, Freedom, Love.

Those things worth dying for, he supposed.

He watched Mrs. Weasley bring her handkerchief up to cover her mouth as she spotted Fred grinning down at them. George sat pale and still beside his father, refusing to look up at the tapestry. Hermione took a firm hold of Ron's hand as he looked up at his brother, a few stray tears running down his face. Harry found himself scanning the tapestries for the familiar faces he had been aching to see. Tonks and Lupin were woven together, sharing a secret smile with each other rather than gazing out at the audience. Harry's eyes were drawn to a small face down in the corner. Colin Creevey's smile stretched wide across his face, his camera hung around his neck. He looked away, grief tying his stomach in knots.

Kingsley turned to face the audience, wrapping his fingers around the edges of the podium as he calmly waited for everyone to regain their composure.

"We have gathered here this evening to honor the bravery and sacrifice of our friends and families. The faces you see before you represent not only those we have lost, but also the hope of a better world which they gave their lives to protect."

Harry watched Professor McGonagall discreetly dab at her eyes from her seat beside him, her back held stiffly upright as she focused on the Minister.

"We have gathered here to remember them, and to remember the day they fought with us against the greatest evil of our time. On the second of May, a day steeped in joy and tragedy, much was lost. While nothing can ever replace those that have gone from us, we must also remember the victory they helped to achieve. We are here tonight not only to honor those we have lost, but also to honor those who are left behind."

He nodded at the front row, and Harry watched Neville stand solemnly and walk to the side of the dais, where Professor Sprout stood beside a glass cabinet swathed in the same black cloth that had been used to conceal the tapestries. With a tap of his wand, Neville removed the cloth, though this time the shards of light floated to the ground like falling leaves, disappearing into the stone floor. Masses of bright red flowers seemed to glow from inside the glass.

Neville and the Professor both lifted their wands and performed a synchronized moment, the glass case opening smoothly as the flowers swirled out through the air in a strange sort of botanical ballet. They floated up past the top of Neville's head before spreading over the audience, bobbing softly in place over everyone seated. Neville and the Professor slowly lowered their wands, and the flowers settled gracefully into the laps of those gathered in the Hall. Harry clutched the stem of the flower that had settled in the folds on his dress robes, turning to watch Kingsley as Neville took his seat.

"These enchanted Sangblossoms will never wilt or die. They will bloom forever in remembrance of those we have lost. Much like the memories in our hearts, these will never fade. Let them serve as a symbol of our remembrance and of the healing our world has already begun. Let them remind us that after the pangs of grief have lost their razor edge, we will find that all that remains is love, the greatest and most powerful magic of all."

…

Ron leaned against a stone column, fiddling with one of the medals around his neck. It was odd that he found no joy in the awards and praise. Once he had gazed into the Mirror of Erised and all he had seen was the recognition for himself that he had so desperately craved, a material validation of his worth. Now he would gladly throw every bloody award in the rubbish bin. He felt sure that if he were to gaze into that mirror again he would see himself surrounded by his family, whole once more, with Harry by his side and Hermione wrapped in his arms.

Harry's speech had gone well. Better than well, he had sounded as brilliant as Hermione, pulling that cloak of 'the chosen one' about him and becoming nearly as commanding a figure as the Minister. Probably more so, to those who didn't know him well.

He was trapped now, and Hermione had run off to assist Ginny in extracting him from the adoring throng. Ron had let her go, partially because he loved to watch her walk away in that dress she was wearing. Provided that she always came back, of course.

He turned at a friendly pat on the back. Neville appeared from around the column, one of those red flowers tucked into his lapel and his own medals winking from within his dress robes.

"I wanted to thank you properly, Ron, for everything your family has done to help Luna, I-"

Ron clapped him on the shoulder, feeling embarrassed at the thanks.

"Oh, well. I'm just glad we could help. We should have done something sooner, mate, I'm really sorry that-"

"No."

Ron raised his eyebrows, trying to read Neville's serious face. He opened his mouth to speak but Neville continued on, his words steady and strong.

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have expected the three of you to remember the state of her home when you have all had so much resting on your shoulders. I do understand the weight of responsibility, Ron, and the weight of grief as well. Voldemort may not have killed my parents, but he took them just the same. You have nothing to be sorry for, but please accept my thanks and pass it on to your family."

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving Ron to wonder just when the shy little boy who had been his friend had disappeared inside the man he saw before him.

…

He wanted to tear it from the wall. He wanted to rip it into shreds, to blast it into a million pieces. He wanted to tuck it in his pocket, to find some secret place where he could curl up like a child and stare at it in private. He wanted-

"George?"

The voice was so familiar, yet sounded strangely foreign without the lilt of humor. Lee Jordan stood beside him, gazing at him like he might collapse at any moment. George hated that look in people's eyes, he hated the careful restraint in their voices. He wasn't made of fucking glass.

"Hello, Lee. Having a good time, are you?"

Something flashed in his friend's dark eyes, something wounded and wary that was quickly covered up like one would pull a sheet over a dead body. His own eyes were drawn against their will, to a corner of the Great Hall where a group of attractive young girls stood chattering. It was like they weren't even there, all he could see in that corner was the half of him that had died in the battle, laid out like a broken doll.

He threw back the last of his Firewhiskey, tossing his words over his shoulder so he wouldn't have to look into his best friend's eyes.

"Damn, looks like I've found the bottom. Fancy a drink, Lee?"

Lee nodded slowly, like he was trying to sort out whether George was really as pulled together as he was pretending to be. The truth was that he felt like an ancient quilt, a patchwork of emotions barely held together by crumbling thread, more stitches popping loose with every movement.

He strode over to a floating tray of drinks, Lee following close behind him. It felt almost like his friend was waiting to catch him in case he threw himself to the floor, prostrate with grief. He was tempted to give it a go, just to see what would happen. Then again, he had never been one to live up to expectations.

They grabbed their drinks, George taking one in each hand.

"One of those for Angelina?"

George looked at him over the rim of his glass as he drained the first one before setting it down on a convenient table. He didn't bother to answer; he just raised the second glass to his lips, watching Lee's eyes darken further with concern.

"I saw her come in with you, but I haven't had a chance to speak with her properly. She doing alright, then?"

George nodded, his eyes automatically scanning the crowd for her head of carefully arranged braids. She was nowhere in sight. He took a sip of his drink, slowing down a bit on the second one. Lee laid a hand on his free arm, squeezing lightly. He finally met his eyes, something twisting inside him at the wet gleam of tears gathering on Lee's thick eyelashes.

"I'm just, I-George."

His spoke his name on a painful sigh, like someone had punched him in the stomach. Making a visible effort to pull himself together, he swiped a hand across his face before once again looking into his eyes.

"Have you read my owls?"

George shrugged. He'd received a lot of owls after the funeral. Didn't seem worth reading them; he knew what they'd say. "So sorry for your loss, George." "He's in a better place now" "Our deepest effing condolences."

Something like desperation entered Lee's face at George's continued disinterest.

"Look, mate, I just want you to know that I'm here for you, whenever you need me. I'm only an owl away if you ever want to grab a pint or pull some birds or-or just, y'know, talk."

George nodded slowly, growing angry as the familiar blur of tears intruded on his vision. He wasn't going to do this here. His pain was too private for him to let any of it escape in this place. He felt naked, exposed. His hands began to tremble, even though he held his glass so tightly he wouldn't be surprised if it shattered in his fist.

He gulped in air, fighting back tears as he watched a few of the treacherous blighters crawl down Lee's face. His friend was crumbling before his eyes, his shoulders starting to shake as they stared at one another.

"I miss him so much, George. I miss you both."

He couldn't take it. Thrusting his drink into Lee's hands, he turned and bolted, running blindly through the glittering throng and falling through the first door he came to, finding himself in a dusty storeroom.

He leaned against a broken table, shuddering through the relentless weeping he fought to bite back between clenched teeth.

…

The detail really was astounding.

Angelina tilted her head back as she gazed up at the tapestry. They had done such a magnificent job on Fred's portrait that it hurt to look at him. Her limbs felt cold and heavy, her heart felt mangled and bruised.

Freckles. They had given him freckles, woven into the cloth around his sparkling eyes.

She wanted to stare at him forever. She wanted everyone to disappear and leave her alone with his image, so that she might count those freckles to be sure they'd got them right. He had always had more on his right cheek than he did his left. He had claimed it was due to his Quidditch position keeping that side facing the sun.

She stroked the petals of the bright red flower she had tucked in her hair. Neville has assured her that it could not be damaged by physical means, but still she found herself reaching up to touch it, to be sure it was there. Her token of his bravery.

The images on the tapestry did not move, but still she could feel his eyes following her, filled with that private laughter that was just for her. The laughter he would press into her sweat-slicked skin after a good shag, the laughter he would place into her palm with a loud, wet kiss.

Tears filled her eyes and she resented them for making it hard to see his image. She didn't know how she would ever find the strength to move from this place, to break the hold he had on her, even just as a portrait on a tapestry.

It turned out that she didn't need the strength. Something big collided with her, knocking her off of her feet. She lifted her head blearily to watch a ginger blur racing through the crowd, disappearing behind a small wooden door.

George.

…

The door creaked open, slapping him with a burst of light and sound from the crowded Hall. He turned away, wiping his face on a fold of his dress robes.

"Sod off!"

The door closed swiftly and he breathed a sigh of relief. Probably a couple looking for some privacy. Well, they wouldn't find it here, George had claimed this room as his own temporary sanctuary.

"I saw you talking to Lee. How is he?"

He jerked his head around to stare at Angelina. Of course. Of course it was her. She always seemed to find him at his lowest moments.

"I said sod off."

She nodded, stepping closer to run a hand over the dusty table he had been leaning against.

"So I heard. Unfortunately, I'm terrible at following directions."

He narrowed his eyes at her, rage bubbling within his chest, flowing out over the grief and sorrow he had been so feebly holding back. He felt like a wounded animal cornered in his cave, lashing out at anyone who got too close.

"You should really follow this one. Unless you've come here to give me another mercy shag."

Her eyes shot open wide like he had slapped her. He felt lower than a horklump as she blinked back tears, pulling her hand away from the table to clutch at her skirt, balling the soft material in her fist. He felt a stab of pride as she lifted her chin, refusing to look away. Good girl. She ought to punch him in the nose for that.

"And what if I have?"

Well. Hadn't been expecting that. His breath whooshed out noisily as he was caught off guard, stepping back only to bump into the edge of the wobbly table taking up most of the space in the stuffy little room. She couldn't mean it. He had hurt her with his cruel words and she was just fighting back. What had happened before had been…well. He didn't want to call it a mistake. But a repeat performance would surely constitute something more than a spontaneous act of comfort between friends.

He wasn't ready for something more.

"Please leave me alone."

He didn't recognize the broken whisper his voice had become. He didn't want to recognize the emotion that socked him in the chest as she glided closer, refusing to turn away. He couldn't feel this way, not for her. Not for Fred's Angel.

"I can't. I can't go back out there, George. Not yet."

He nodded, glancing at the door behind her. The thin barrier between them and the world.

He leaned against the table once again, looking down at his shoes as he avoided her eyes.

"It really wasn't, you know."

He glanced back up at her in confusion.

"Come again?"

"It wasn't a mercy shag."

She stood in front of him, her eyes direct and defiant. She was such a brave girl, his Angelina. He shook himself, struggling to meet her eyes while hiding his thoughts from her. She wasn't _his_ Angelina, and he needed to remember that.

"I know. I'm sorry, I should never have said that. I was just-"

She pressed her fingers against his lips, a scant six inches separating them as she moved even closer. Tears sparkled in her eyes and he wondered if he would ever have a chance to get this close to her when she wasn't crying. His track record thus far was not encouraging.

He parted his lips beneath her fingers, pressing a kiss into her soft skin. The sharp catch in her breath dashed his small hope that she would not notice the gesture.

He held his own breath as she dragged her fingers lightly across his cheek, her lips moving as if she was…counting? The uncomfortable tightening of his trousers was a welcome distraction from his emotions as she pressed herself against him, her body yielding softly to his.

She laughed suddenly, a strange, wet laugh filled as much with tears as mirth. The way she was looking at him…he was afraid to breathe. He wanted her to look at him in just that way forever.

"You have a quite a bit more freckles on your left cheek than on your right, did you know that?"

He nodded distractedly, trying not to press himself against her. There was still a chance of getting out of this storeroom without further complications.

"Yeah, I know. My Beater position kept the sun on my left, you see, and-"

Her lips crashed down on his like a wave breaking on the shore, and any thoughts of escape were instantly wiped from his mind.

He could get lost in her; leave himself behind for a few blessed moments. She was medicine for his wounded soul, and he drank her in like a man dying of thirst.

…

Ron followed along like an obedient puppy as Hermione dragged him by his hand down the twisting corridors. They had finally escaped, slipped away from the crowded Hall for a bit of much-needed privacy. He held back a bit just so that he could watch her walk in that dress. Blimey, it looked like the whole thing would slide right off of her shoulders at the slightest nudge. He tightened his fingers around hers to keep from nudging.

He raised his eyebrows when she pulled him into the blissfully empty library, ducking into the dark space between some of the massive bookcases a few rows down.

She couldn't possibly mean for them to… in the library? That was practically like snogging in a church for her, wasn't it? But oh, Merlin, it was as if she had reached into his mind and pulled out his oldest and most enduring fantasy. The one he had spent countless hours perfecting over the years as he watched her pore over books at the long tables in the center of this very room.

While she had been revising her essays, he had been revising the fantasy. It had started innocently enough, a quick kiss stolen between the shelves. Of course, by sixth year he had been hiking up her prim wool skirt and taking her right there on the table. He wondered what version she had in mind. Somewhere in between, he imagined.

She turned to look up at him, her eyes lit with that perfect glow he was beginning to tentatively identify as proof that she loved him.

"Are you alright, Ron?"

He nodded stiffly. He didn't want to talk about that right now. He didn't want to think about Fred's face on that tapestry, or George sitting woodenly beside his Dad. He didn't want to think about how tired he was already of being called a hero and all of the rubbish that came with that. He just wanted to sink into her eyes and press her back against the bookcase and finally snog that damn distracting shiny stuff off her sweet lips.

She seemed to read his mind, her arms winding around his neck as she gazed up at him as though he were the only man in the world. Good thing, that, since as far as he was concerned she was the only girl in the bloody universe.

She tilted her chin toward him, rising on her toes despite the added height her pointy shoes had granted her. He wrapped his arm about her waist, his hand sliding easily over the silken material of her gown. He began to hold the back of her head with his other hand, cursing as he came in contact with her elaborate curls, remembering that she wouldn't be too pleased with him if he mussed her up. She laughed softly, dotting his chin with tiny kisses. He settled for wrapping his fingers around the delicate nape of her neck, lifting her face to his as he brushed their lips together.

"Wait, stop!"

They both froze at the whispered female voice from the other side of the bookcase.

Hermione looked up at him with wide eyes as Ron pulled away from her, looking for a quick escape route.

"I apologize if I took any liberties you had not granted-"

Ron's eyebrows rose as he recognized Percy's voice. It must be Percy and his date, then. From the sound of things, they'd come to the library with much the same thing in mind as he and Hermione.

"No, that's not-you haven't done anything wrong. I just don't-"

"Do you wish to return to the ballroom?"

Hermione shot him a look of frustration as they discovered the only way out would be to walk right past the other couple, which could prove rather awkward for both parties. Ron shrugged as he decided to wait it out, hoping that they would just return to the ballroom as Percy had suggested and leave the library to couples more interested in snogging than conversation.

"No. I don't. I think that I should go home."

"Very well, I'll just retrieve your robe and escort you back straight away."

"I think that I should go home by myself."

Ron cringed in sympathy as Percy stammered a bit on his response.

"Of-of course I had not meant to imply that I would be going home with you, I only intended to escort you there safely."

"I know. I know that, but I just don't think that it's a good idea. None of this is a good idea. I think – I'm afraid that we made a mistake, coming here together."

Now both Ron and Hermione were cringing as they were forced to listen to his brother getting chucked in the middle of a date. Now it would be bloody impossible for them to walk by. They were as good as trapped.

"I… see. I-Penny… _Penelope_, would you… could you tell me why it was a mistake?"

"I just can't…I can't do this again. I'm simply not strong enough."

"It won't happen again, I would never-"

"You don't understand! It's everything or nothing with you. You're just…you're too intense, Percy. You always have been. And sooner or later something will go wrong, and I just can't… I don't think I could survive it. Not again."

There was a long painful silence during which Hermione grasped his hand tightly, twining her fingers around his like vines on a tree.

"Of course. I'll just retrieve your robe and escort you home. You have my word that I will never contact you again after that."

"I'm sorry, Percy, I really am."

She had spoken so softly that Ron almost didn't hear her through the bookcase. Moments later two sets of brisk footsteps echoed through the library. He locked eyes with Hermione as they both sighed in relief, feeling like he could breathe again for the first time since they had been interrupted.

He chewed his bottom lip as he looked down at her, fretting that the spell had been broken, the moment lost. He nearly swallowed his lip as she casually reached into his robes, fishing around for a few wonderful seconds before emerging with his wand.

Walking in a wide circle between the shelves, she muttered a few enchantments he realized would keep anyone else who intruded from seeing or hearing them. He tried not to read too much into it, ruthlessly fighting back his hopeful fantasies. His body was already hopeful enough, standing at full attention after she had reached into his robes. He certainly did not want to repeat his over eagerness of their last encounter.

Laying his wand on the wide ledge that ran about waist high on the shelves, she returned to him, replacing her arms about his neck as though they had never been interrupted. He lost the battle with his excitement, crushing her against him with both arms around her waist as he lifted her off of the ground, pressing their lips together with none of the gentleness he had used before.

She certainly didn't seem to mind, holding onto his shoulders as she pressed herself against him, parting her lips beneath the insistence of his tongue.

Her dress was so slippery he kept gathering handfuls of it to keep her from sliding down, nearly baring her to the waist before she brought her knees up around his hips, clenching her thighs around him until he saw stars.

Those thighs - he couldn't resist running his hands up and down the warm silk of her skin, kneading handfuls of her soft flesh as she moaned into his mouth.

Fuck, he wanted to lay her on one of those tables and strip every scrap of slippery blue material from her body, leaving her bare and beautiful to his gaze.

He heard her shoes fall onto the floor as he backed her up against the bookcase, resting her round little bum on the wide ledge beside his wand. Her head tilted back against the worn leather spines of the magical history section, exposing her creamy throat. He ran his mouth over her vulnerable skin, pausing to press a tender kiss against the thin scar from her knife-wound.

She was a fury of motion in his arms, twining her legs around his as she pushed first his dress robes from his shoulders, then shoved at his jacket until he pulled his arms away long enough for her to remove it. She attacked the buttons of his shirt, her mouth running warm and wet beneath his collar, sending him spiraling into madness as she dragged her tongue down his chest.

He grabbed a handful of curls, no longer giving a shit if he messed up her hairstyle, yanking her head back for him to ravish her mouth, thrusting hard with his tongue as she lifted her hips, pressing herself against the ache in his trousers.

He ran his hands down her sides and back up the front of her dress, groaning loudly at the amazing feel of her tits beneath the thin material of her gown, her hardened nipples beneath his fingertips. He teased them lightly before reaching up to finally nudge the damn thing off of her shoulders.

He paused, pulling back to glare at the dress as it refused to budge, bringing both hands up to tug on the seemingly dainty material which now seemed glued to her skin.

Smiling up at him through her lovely blush, she reached beside her for his wand, tapping each of her shoulders lightly as she muttered something he didn't recognize.

"Fleur enchanted it with a spell the girls at Beauxbatons use, to keep it from slipping at an inappropriate time."

He nodded like he gave a kneazle's arse about Fleur and spells and clothing, wondering how long he would have to wait before she was in his arms again.

His mind went completely blank as she shrugged her shoulders, her gown sliding down to pool at her waist like dark blue liquid pouring down her skin.

Bloody Hell.

She shifted nervously, her arms jerking like they wanted to reach up and cover herself, but he caught her hands, rubbing his thumbs against her palms as he stared down at her.

"Beautiful."

His voice was low and ragged, emerging like a whisper dragged through a briar patch. Her eyes widened at the sound, sparkling up at him, somehow magnified by her careful makeup until they were all that he could see.

He cupped her chin in his hand, lifting her lips to his as he kissed her with the gentleness he had nearly lost before. She pushed against him, making his heart trip and stutter as he felt her breasts brush against the bare skin of his chest exposed by his open shirt. He wanted to feel her naked skin along every inch of him; he wanted…oh, Merlin, but he wanted.

He ran his fingers over her ribs, feeling her flesh rise in little bumps of reaction though the room was sufficiently warm. Her breasts felt warm and heavy against the back of his knuckles, and he turned his hands to palm her gently, thrilling at the perfect way she molded to his touch.

Her knees rose higher on his hips as she pressed herself against him, driving him mad as he felt the warmth of her through his trousers. Gently pushing her back until her shoulders rested against the bookcase, he followed her with his mouth, drawing convoluted patterns on her skin with his tongue. He started at the crest of her shoulder, where her gown had perched with such deceptive frailty, working his way down to her breasts as he watched her chest rise with shallow breaths.

Glancing up to find her watching him with a heavy-lidded gaze, her lips softly parted, he moaned her name before swirling his tongue around the pebbled tip of her breast, bringing her arching up against him with a sharp cry. He turned to give the same treatment to the other side, surprised as her fingers dug into his hair, yanking his head up sharply so she could press her lips to his, sucking his tongue hungrily into her mouth. Her hips started to rock beneath his in a hypnotizing rhythm, leaving him a breathless heap of desperation. He ran his mouth along her jaw to nibble on her ear, freezing in place as she whispered into his neck.

"Please. Ron, please."

The way she said his name…he thought he might just embarrass himself the way he had done last time. He pulled back to look at her, trying to be certain exactly what she was asking of him. Her eyes were dark and shining with desire, her lips pink and swollen from his kisses. She moaned his name again, rubbing herself against him in such a way that he was left with no doubt of what she was asking him.

His hands started to shake as he traced his fingertips along her thighs, spread wide by his hips. He stopped as he brushed the edge of her knickers, holding his breath as he watched her carefully, terrified of making a mistake. His voice broke as he mustered up the courage to ask, needing to be sure.

"Hermione, do you-is this-can I?"

She bit her lip, nodding shyly.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to concentrate on everything his brothers had ever told him about girls, about _this_.

He brushed his thumb lightly over the front of her knickers, groaning into her hair as her breath hitched and he felt how wet she was. For him. He rubbed softly over her knickers a few more times before working up the courage to dip his thumb beneath the elastic edge, nearly coming in his trousers as he felt the creamy softness of her mysterious flesh.

Merlin, she felt amazing, and he had barely touched her. He reached up to her hips, hooking the sides of her knickers with unsteady hands before drawing them down her legs to fall on the floor. Her entire body was trembling as he stepped back between her thighs, holding her open to his touch, to his gaze. He glanced down, getting an impression of damp pink flesh before looking up into her eyes. She was blushing hard, staring at him with longing and uncertainty in equal measure. He kissed her softly, trying to banish the uncertainty, to burn it away in the flames of their desire.

"I love you. I-anything. Anything you want, Hermione."

"I love you too, Ron, I-"

Her voice broke on a soft cry as he returned his fingers to her flesh, exploring her with small, gentle touches. He tried to focus intently on her breathing, on the responses of her body. He repeated any motion that brought a gasp from her lips or made her arch into his touch. His fingers moved gradually lower until he felt what could only be the entrance to her body. Sweat broke out on his forehead at the thought of sinking his fingers into her. At the thought of sinking any part of himself into her.

He dipped the tip of his middle finger just inside her, watching her face carefully. Her expression seemed to convey approval, but when she whispered "please" once more he was unable to hold back any longer.

He slid his finger deep inside her, both of them moaning at the friction. She felt incredible, her hot, slick flesh gripping him tightly. He tried not to think too much about how she would feel gripping other parts of his anatomy. He held his hips away from her, afraid to even brush up against her leg. It felt like his cock would explode at the slightest touch.

He slowly drew his finger nearly all the way out of her before sliding back in, making her breath hiss between her teeth as her fingers dug into his shoulders. He repeated this a few more times before remembering something important. On the next inward slide he brought his thumb up to brush across the peak of flesh nestled above her entrance. Her eyes flew open as she started sobbing his name, writhing against him with every touch. It only took a few more thrusts before she was shaking in his arms, crushing his lips to hers as she gave a muffled scream into his mouth. He could feel her flesh rippling around his fingers, clenching rhythmically in unmistakable pleasure.

He pulled his hand away to rest against her thigh as she continued to kiss him with such violent desperation that soon he was shaking as much as she was. Her hands flew down to pull at the front of his trousers, lowering his zip before he could grab her fingers. She looked up at him with the most adorably confused expression as he tried to catch his breath enough to speak.

"You-you-you don't have to, Hermione, I-"

She smiled slowly, something soft and tender in her eyes warming him from within.

"I want to, Ron. Please let me."

Merlin, did she have to say please like that? Now his cock was going to be popping up every time she asked him to pass something at the bloody dinner table.

She slid her clever little hands into his trousers, stroking his swollen flesh as he gripped her thighs, trying to hold out for a little while longer this time. Her eyes were watching his face as she released his belt, pulling him completely free of his trousers. She had such a studious expression on her face that suddenly he was reminded that they were in the library. That he had just-that he was -with Hermione! In the library!

Well, his fantasies certainly paled in comparison to the reality of her. How could he ever read a book again without thinking of this moment, of-

"Fuck, Hermione!"

She gave a little gasp at his loud cursing, but rather than scold him, she repeated the motion, gliding her thumb across the tip of his cock, where moisture had been steadily gathering. She circled her fingers around his shaft, stroking softly.

"Am I doing this correctly, Ron?"

Oh shit. Oh sweet fuck she was so-she was just so _Hermione._ Here she sat in the effing library with her dress bunched around her waist and his cock in her hands, looking up earnestly into his face as she waited for his answer. Like she had asked a question in class. He struggled not to come just from the look on her face. She was still waiting for his answer. He tried to scoop enough of his brain off of the floor to form coherent words.

"Y-yeah. Jus' maybe a bit, a bit firmer."

She immediately shifted her grip, wrapping her fingers more tightly around his flesh. It only took a few more strokes for him to spill himself all over her hand, moaning her name as she pressed hot kisses against his throat, whispering her love for him into his skin.

He caught her mouth with his, trying to convey everything he was feeling with gentle lips. She seemed to get the message, staring deep into his eyes as he finally pulled away.

She closed her legs as he stepped back to tuck himself into his trousers. She leaned to the side, starting to reach for his wand before looking down at her sticky fingers, blushing prettily. He grabbed it himself, cleaning her hands before handing her the wand. She was far better at this kind of thing, after all.

She hopped down from the ledge, pulling her dress back onto her shoulders before bending down to hunt for her knickers. He spied them hidden beneath the hem of her gown and bent to pick them up, feeling his ears burn as she took them from him without quite meeting his eye.

For just a moment before she took them back he had a terrible urge to shove them in his pocket, to keep them as a reminder that this had really happened. Him. Hermione. _In the library_.

He located his jacket and threw it on before buttoning his shirt and tucking it haphazardly back into his trousers. He looked at Hermione, who had gotten completely back into her dress and was even now tapping her shoulders with the wand, keeping it in place. His eyes skimmed down her body, a weight settling in his stomach as he took in the state of her.

"Hermione, we can't go back out there. You… you look… _well_."

She looked well shagged, is how she looked. Her curls were tangled and dangling down her back and her dress…her dress looked like it had been run over by a herd of angry centaurs. It was crumpled and creased, the once perfectly smooth fabric looking decidedly mussed.

"I look a bit disheveled, you mean?"

He nodded emphatically, trying to look apologetic when inside he was really crowing with triumph. Hermione Granger looked bloody well shagged. By him. In the library.

She tossed him a secret smile before waving her wand over herself, performing another spell he didn't recognize. To his utter amazement her dress smoothed itself out, her hair leapt back into its original arrangement, and her makeup even seemed to reapply itself, that shiny stuff spreading once more across her lips.

She threw him his wand, laughing at his bewildered expression.

"Fleur taught me quite a few spells, actually. She's rather gifted with cosmetic spellwork, you know."

He nodded dumbly, pulling his dress robes back on before tucking his wand away. She stood on her toes to fuss with his hair before stepping back to give him a final once over.

Grabbing his hand, she chewed her lip as she met his eyes, her cheeks turning a delightful pink. He grinned at her like the lovesick fool that he was, raising their clasped hands to press a kiss against her knuckles. She smiled back at him, her eyes shining, before she turned and led him out of the library, back into the fray.

It was probably about time to rescue Harry again, after all.

* * *

_Thanks for reviewing!_


	30. Chapter 30 Hold On

**I own nothing Harry Potter, it all belongs to the incomparable J.K. Rowling.**

**I finally, finally, FINALLY updated! **

**I have decided to close my longest running fic, which has a special place in my heart as it helped me to learn about myself as a writer and to meet such amazing friends who have stuck with me now for years (looking at you, urbanmama1!). **

**I sincerely hope that you have enjoyed reading and that you continue to share a love of reading and amazing characters who stay with you long after you have closed the chapter. **

**Thank you to all of my readers and fellow Harry Potter fans, we are an amazing community and I am lucky to be a part of it!**

**Extra thank you to my beta/besty, urbanmama1, who is my writing goddess.**

* * *

The floorboards creaked a warm, familiar tune, winding slowly down the hall toward Ginny's bedroom door. Hermione concentrated on smoothing another carefully folded blouse on top of her impeccably arranged belongings which covered the surface of the camp bed.

"I expect you think you're going somewhere with that."

She dipped her chin in silent acknowledgement, placing the stack of blouses, all soft and sweet-smelling from Mrs. Weasley's skillful laundering, into her rather the worse for wear beaded handbag, her arm disappearing up to her shoulder before emerging to retrieve a stack of trousers.

Big feet shuffled inside of ragged trainers against the doorway. She did not look up, maintaining her focus on her task despite the blistering urge to raise her eyes, knowing the picture she would find there.

He would be watching her, hands deep in his pockets with a hint of bony wrist peeking from beneath too-short shirtsleeves. Shirtsleeves that would stretch tight across broad shoulders hunched in discontent, framing a freckled jaw taut with vexation.

"I saw you talking to Kingsley at the Memorial. I'm not daft, Hermione, I know you're leaving to find your parents."

A quiet sigh rushed through her chest and out between lips suddenly dry with nerves. She licked them unconsciously as she finally looked up into his eyes. Clear blue eyes that pierced right through her heart, never failing to find the chinks in her armor.

"I'm going with you."

He took two steps toward her, long legs eating up the distance between them faster than he had scarfed down his breakfast that morning. His sleeves were most definitely too short, riding up nearly to his elbows as he crossed his arms defiantly over his chest.

She shook her head, her fingers knotted tightly together at her waist as she moved away from the bed.

"I can't ask that of you. You and Harry have so much here that you need to do without me pulling you into my personal mess."

"Right, because we've never been the sort of friends who muck about in one another's problems."

"It isn't that, Ron. I simply mean that the two of you are really needed here. Your family-"

"Can bloody well do without me for a while, they've certainly gotten used to not having me about, haven't they?"

"Be that as it may, I just can't ask you-"

"There's no asking to be done. I'm telling you that I'm going with you, like it or not."

There was something flickering behind the stubborn glint in his eyes, something that wove itself around her heart like a woolen jumper, something that stuck in her throat, preventing her carefully planned speech from reaching her lips. A speech she had spent days formulating, adding a new and logical reason for her solo journey each day and night of the past week since she had spoken to the Minister.

Solid, legitimate reasons which had only moments before lined up dutifully in her mind like well trained soldiers, now scattered in broken piles at their feet. He did that to her, removed her reason and replaced it with some force of nature she could not control.

Moments ticked by in tense silence until he broke his stance, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he stared down at the floor for a few counts before looking back into her eyes.

"Look, I can't- I just can't let you do this alone. I know you've got a million reasons why you think you should, in fact I'd bet my wand you've got a bloody list tucked away somewhere."

She blinked, trying hard not to glance at the rolled parchment on the nightstand, warmth settling within her like a jacket thrown about her shoulders at this evidence of just how well he knew her.

"But the thing is, you could make a list with every reason in the world and I still couldn't let you go by yourself. You're telling me that I'm needed here, but the truth is that you're needed here."

He thumped both hands against his chest, his face flaming red but his eyes holding fast to hers. She could feel tears prickling at the backs of her eyes as he tried to strike a casual pose, shrugging his shoulders with both ears still glowing.

"So do you reckon there's room in your bag for a few of my things?"

She swallowed, pushing back the tears with a little smile.

"I suppose there could be. Though perhaps we ought to only pack those trousers that are a bit too small for you. To conserve space, you understand."

His relieved laughter ruffled her hair as he scooped her up against him, her arms winding about his shoulders as she pressed her face into his neck, nuzzling skin still warm from his blushes.

His voice was a bit muffled by thick tufts of frazzled hair she hadn't bothered to put into any sort of order.

"I'd expected more of a battle, to be honest."

She nodded, rocking her chin against his shoulder as they held each other tightly.

"So did I, especially since I had one quite neatly prepared."

…

George looked up at the sound of thundering footsteps bounding down the back stair. He dropped the gnome that had been gleefully attempting to gnaw his arm off at the elbow, waving his brother to come over.

"Nasty little buggers today, eh?"

George nodded, wiping his arm across his forehead, achieving little more than rubbing a nice layer of grit into his sweaty skin.

"Lend us a hand, will you?"

Ron was already tugging his shirt off over his head, the lazy git leaving the buttons done up.

"Oi!"

Charlie peeled the shirt off of his face with a frown as he emerged from behind the shrubbery, tossing it to the ground in irritation.

Ron responded with a cheeky grin,

"Sorry, didn't see you lurking about in the bushes."

"Sod off."

Ron's grin didn't suffer a bit from the sharp retort, instead spreading across his face in a manner so familiar it made George's teeth ache.

Silence reigned as the three brothers continued to degnome the lower garden, broken only by the occasional grunt or colorful outburst. George mused that the Weasley gnomes likely possessed the filthiest language in Devon, since it was really all they ever heard. He hoped that garden gnomes were exceptionally impressionable creatures.

Time passed, and the sun gradually grew less insistent overhead, the back of George's neck no longer prickling with discomfort.

"Well that's it for me, boys. I think I'll go in and put the kettle on. You lot can join me if you've any fingers left to hold a cup."

Charlie stretched impressively, showing off large muscles earned taming his wild terrors for years on end, waving jauntily before loping his way back to the house.

"He's leaving, you know."

Ron flung one last gnome with a triumphant shout before turning to face him, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, I know. S'why he asked if we wanted any tea."

George shook his head, wiping his face on the collar of his shirt.

"No, I mean he's off for Romania in the next couple of days, going back to play with his pets."

Ron grimaced, shaking his damp hair out of his eyes.

"I can tell you that dragons make bloody awful pets, the one we rode out of Gringotts nearly killed me from smell alone."

"Well in that case, Charlie is a perfect match for the beasts."

They shared a smile before Ron turned to fish his shirt out of the shrubbery.

"Listen, Ron. I don't know what your plans are, but-"

"Who told you!?"

George lifted his eyebrow with surprise as Ron spun around like he had been hit with a pinching jinx, one gangly arm still stuck in the air trying to work into his sleeve.

"Have you been- who've you been talking to?"

Now George's infamous curiosity was really piqued. The fact that Ron assumed he knew something he shouldn't made him absolutely need to know whatever his brother would prefer to keep hidden.

"Couldn't say. There's a lot of talk going round the Burrow, a bloke just needs to know which bits to listen to."

Ron narrowed his eyes, pushing his mouth to one side as he tried to read George's carefully arrogant expression. He leaned back after a moment, arms crossed belligerently.

"You don't know anything. You're bluffing."

George nodded sagely, dipping his hands in his pockets as he turned toward the house.

"Hmm, maybe you're right."

Ron peered at him for a moment, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"So what did you want, then?"

George started walking leisurely up to the house, kicking bits of dirt that had been flung from the gnomes out of his way.

"Oh, nothing really. I just thought that when you get back you'll likely be looking for a job. Probably be a real headache, what with you being a dropout and everything."

Ron nodded slowly, still suspicious. George grinned inwardly as he noted his assumption that Ron would be going on a journey was not corrected.

"Thing of it is, I happen to know of a business that makes a deplorable habit of employing school dropouts, deviants, and delinquents. You'd fit in nicely."

He kept walking a few paces before noticing that Ron had stopped dead, his eyes wide as saucers.

"Do you mean … You're opening Wheezes?"

George closed his eyes, his heart suddenly dipped in ice water, the damn thing aching with cold and shaking like mad. He'd made the decision sometime last night; or perhaps in the wee-est hours of that morning, when the world had been quiet and still and there was nothing to do but think. It felt … like the right thing to do. The hard thing, the painful thing, as it seemed the right thing often was. It was what he would have wanted, if it had been he who …

"Yeah."

The word fell heavily between them, settling in amongst the stones of the garden, solid and enduring.

…

"Bloody hell! What was that!?"

Hermione lay a soft hand on his forearm, patting absentmindedly as she studied the packet of parchment Kingsley had given them the night before.

"Don't worry; it's only the engines firing up. Perfectly normal."

Ron screwed his eyes tightly shut, trying not to gasp like a landed trout.

"Normal!? Hermione, there is absolutely nothing normal about this-this-this thing."

He swallowed painfully as she merely patted him again, turning the page with the most irritating sense of calm he had ever been unfortunate enough to witness firsthand.

"Alright, dear?"

Ron's head whipped to the side to find the kettle shaped woman across the aisle smiling gently at him. In fact, that rather mumsy flowered dress she wore resembled nothing so much as his Aunt Muriel's favorite tea cozy. He offered her a sickly grin, hoping he wasn't half as green as he felt.

Unfortunately, this appeared to be some kind of Muggle signal for "Oh please, do talk my ear off. I would love to see your quilting pattern."

He almost groaned in relief as Hermione finally lifted her head from the parchment to peer up at him.

For a moment he could almost pretend that they were not hurtling through the air in some metallic muggle contraption. For just a moment the weightlessness in his stomach could be entirely attributed to a pair of brown eyes rimmed with dark lashes. Then the contraption made a series of alarming noises, alerting him to the fact that his stomach was not in fact weightless as it dropped clear to his toes before bouncing back up to lodge in his throat.

Hermione tucked her packet somewhere beneath her feet before reaching both hands to lightly frame his face. Her cool touch immediately centered him, pulling him back into her orbit with the merest gesture of affection. She held his gaze with those serious eyes, her hands soft and steady.

"It's going to be alright, Ron."

He turned his lips into her palm, releasing his white knuckled grip on the chair arms to lay his hands over hers.

"Everything will be alright, love. I'm going to make bloody sure of it."

Her hands trembled lightly against his face as tears welled in her eyes.

"I hope so. Oh, I do hope so. I suppose that until then we must simply do what we can to get by."

He nodded slowly as he pulled her head to his chest with one long arm across her shoulders.

"We've gotten quite good at that, I think. Getting by, I mean."

She nodded, warm tears dotting his shirtfront as she settled in against him. The contraption made a strange whirring noise again but this time he didn't flinch. This time nothing could interrupt the inner peace he felt with this girl in his arms.

He had somehow managed to grasp for his happy ending, and now all that remained was to try his damnedest to make sure that he held onto it.

* * *

_Thanks for reviewing!_


End file.
